Spiritus Mundi
by Shaitanah
Summary: Postwar. Harry, an Auror in training, tries to deal with the consequences of the Final Battle as he interrogates Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. The more Harry gets to know his former archnemesis, the more he questions himself. HPLV
1. Here I Am, Ready For You

**Title**: "Spiritus Mundi"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-war, Harry is 19

**Summary**: HP/LV The war is over. Harry, an Auror in training, tries to deal with the consequences of the Final Battle that has changed many lives including his. He receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. The more Harry gets to know his former arch-nemesis, the more he questions his position in the post-war world. Life was undoubtedly easier when there were just the two of them... Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling. bout of panic Voldemort belongs to J.K. Rowling. War belongs to J.K. Rowling. SOS! EVERYTHING belongs to J.K. Rowling. What if we too belong to J.K. Rowling/bout of panic The name for the chapter comes from the song 'Nothing I've Ever Known' by Bryan Adams.

**A/N**: To the fans of 'You Set My Soul Alight', my other HP/LV: I promised I'd never continue it for any sequel would spoil my super-sadistic ending. This fic is by no means a continuation though it takes place in dreams again. It's a stand alone that explores the possibility of Harry and Voldemort's relationship after the war (like millions of others, banal, I know). I thought some of those who really wanted me to go back to this pairing (which is undoubtedly my favourite) might be interested in this story.

**Special Thanks**: to Lady Domino for suggesting the title.

**Dedication**: To all the people who read and reviewed 'You Set My Soul Alight'. You are my inspiration!

* * *

**SPIRITUS MUNDI**

_'C__uz we lost it all, _

_Nothing lasts forever_

_I'm sorry _

_I can't be perfect_

_Now it's just too late and _

_We can't go back_

_I'm sorry _

_I can't be perfect_

Simple Plan. _'Perfect'

* * *

_

**Chapter 1**

_**Here I Am, Ready For You**_

I know I shouldn't be here. His memory is like a dark forest I have no sane reason to enter. But it seems that my sanity has long since abandoned me.

He's hiding, he doesn't want me to see him. Or maybe he just lures me into a trap like he usually does. I should learn from him, I should be thankful for such a wise mentor – he teaches me to be sensible, and cautious, and to watch my back.

I go on. The trees lock their branches, blocking my way, but I tear straight through them deeper into the unexplored thicket. The forest around me is warm and sweet-scented though he tries to make it look grim and frightening. He wants to show me I'm unwelcomed here. If so, he fails.

I find him by the big tree where he usually expects me. I also find that he hasn't changed his appearance as I have requested. It is easier for me to talk to Voldemort rather than Tom Riddle. Here I know what to expect, I know how to react, I know what he wants above all else: my blood on the grass, sizzling on the burning sand, my body at his feet, 'to see the light leave my eyes': the usual. In Tom's company, I have to be more careful. I don't want to admit Tom scares me a little. I don't know why.

His attachment to Tom's body is quite understandable: I mean, one plain look at the real Lord Voldemort would explain everything. I'd try to hold on to the more handsome image too if I were him. Lucky for me, I'm not…

I put on the official mask of detachment and slight irritation: he didn't do as I have requested, so I'm sort of mad at him. A little. Nothing too personal. (Who am I kidding? Everything about Voldemort is very-very-very personal!)

"I thought I'd told you to take that off," I say point-blank. He seems to pay no attention. I try not to lose my temper which is very easy with him.

"I thought I'd told you to let me go," he parries suddenly. He maintains his calm demeanour with such graceful ease that I begin to envy him. Again. "Tell me, Harry, why are you so set on spending every night with me? Don't these dreams exhaust you?"

"Do you give a damn?"

He grins. It looks slightly out of place especially since I know well enough what kind of face lies beneath this beautiful mask he has created for himself in the dream reality.

"Yes," he drawls. "I care about you in my own way, after all. I don't want you to die. Without you I'll be overwhelmed by boredom here."

I climb up the tree and stretch myself on the thickest branch. This way I'm looking down on him, I can even touch him if I lower my hand. He's sitting on the root that rises from the grass high enough to form sort of a hard bench. I can see sheets of paper scattered about. Those are drawings, rough sketches, half-formed ideas transferred on the paper but unfinished.

"Care to talk today?" I ask. He shakes his head vaguely. "Oh well, you never do. How do you plan on leaving here if you do not talk?"

He doesn't even look at me. I spend the rest of the night lying on the branch; I leave in the morning, devastated, furious and extremely tired.

Merlin, I hate mornings. I hate Monday mornings even more. My lectures at the Department are getting more tiresome and difficult. When it comes to practical skills I'm the best. But theory will do me in, I'm sure of it. All these pathetic 'do' and 'don't' – they can't help catch a dark wizard. I've been there, I've seen more than any accomplished Auror with a diploma fresh out of the training programm. It's just a formality for me. I agreed to undergo the training simply because I didn't want anybody to think they took me for being 'the famous Harry Potter' and nothing more.

Payback's such a –. Nevermind!

On my way home I suddenly decide to Apparate to Azkaban fortress. Yeah, that's me: no other person in the world would go along with such a 'brillint' (read: stupid) idea. But I'm Harry Potter, am I not? I battle Voldemort during summer vacation, I interrogate criminals between taking profile exams and taking care of my comatose girlfriend that lies in St Mungo's, I chat with my greatest enemy come night in my dreams… Whatever about me is _normal_?

I make sure that Voldemort is still sleeping in his cell. He fell asleep shortly after his arrest and he never woke up; that's why I had to master the art of entering the dream reality. Somehow I get the feeling Dumbledore wouldn't have liked me doing this. He'd have said I was too inexperienced, too young and still had a lot to learn. I agree but we have no other choice.

My flat is small and crammed with boxes; I've just moved in. I have no time to unpack – and frankly speaking, no wish. I wouldn't call this place home. I drink some juice straight from the packet (still dreading to hear Aunt Petunia's shriek, she'd never let me do this) – I can't believe I'm free. Free, free, free – from everything! Voldemort is locked up in Azkaban, the Dursleys are the chapter in a book I finished reading a long time ago, even Professor Dumbledore is dead – and there's no one to tell me how to live my life.

I go to bed. I toss and turn for hours before it suddenly dawns upon me: I'm not going to sleep tonight. Insomnia has gripped me. It's still comparatively early but I just feel I won't fall asleep. I take a walk and drop by a club in the downtown. Waves of electronic music surround me, suck me in. A girl in a violet dress beckons me to the dancefloor. I'm usually worse than this at getting a date. We dance and I notice threads of beads that jingle around her neck. She jingles all over. A number of threads is wrapped around her slender waist, dozens of bracelets adorn her wrists, even her hair is full of multi-coloured beads.

I like it. And I smile.

Later I buy her a drink. She kisses me, she slips her tongue into my mouth – all I can think about is that I probably seem too awakward, too clumsy and she can guess how inexperienced I am. Damn!

She smells like a big purple violet.

"I have a girlfriend," I say once the kiss is broken. Silly honest me! As always.

The girl (Sarah, her name is Sarah, she told me that an hour ago when we were dancing) shrugs her shoulders. "So what? She's not here!" I can barely hear her over the music. The rhythm is driving me insane. Pencils of light blind me. "I have a boyfriend too, by the way."

She leans heavily against me, kissing me passionately. I can't help but wonder why she is doing this. Where is her boyfriend? What would he think if he saw her with me? What would Ginny think? I try not to think about Ginny. Is that cheating?

No, that's not cheating, not yet. Cheating is when I take Sarah to my flat. Cheating takes place on my bed, the same bed I use for interrogating Voldemort (figurally speaking, of course). Cheating is when our clothes is piled on the floor, the feeling of her bare skin against mine, being inside her – and not thinking about Ginny for some time. It's pure freedom.

Sarah offers me a cigarrette later. I decline. It's funny that she smokes after sex – it's like a cheap novel.

I'll probably never see her again. Oh well, let it be, then. She was a nice girl. I think the only thing I will remember in a week's time is the way her beads jingled when she swayed to the tune of rough artificial music. And the scent of flowers around her. Maybe I idealize her too much.

* * *

I forgot that I had a seminar on tracking the day after that. I didn't fail but I was pretty close to that. I'm not that good at stealth, I prefer to act quickly and without much planning. 'Too bluntly', they say. Well, it always worked with me.

I haven't seen Voldemort in a week. Been a little busy. This time when I go to him I do a funny, ludicrous thing which could make Hermione _veeeeery_ proud of me: I take a big pile of books with me. It's very convenient: I dream I study – and I actually manage to learn something! Saves a lot of time.

Voldemort almost falls down from the tree.

"What is _this_?"

"Well, I have to do _something_ since you're not very talkative." Oh yes! Usually the screeching of his pencil just rocks me to sleep – in my sleep! Funny, isn't it? "Besides, I have a series of tests and I think I'd better learn a little something."

"How's Sarah doing?" he asks in a while. It's my turn to try and hold the balance: how the hell did he know??? "Was she worth missing our meeting?"

"Er… I don't–."

"Oh please, Harry, don't be so naïve! Did you really think you could access my memories without giving away something of yours?"

I choose to ignore him and start preparing for my test. He chuckles and resumes drawing. Sometimes I look downward and glimpse his work: it's a portrait, female, and it's my mother. We've already been through that when he drew my father. I told him to destroy the picture. I even screamed at him. I know he keeps it somewhere, knowing how much it affects me. I just pray he won't draw Ginny. I might break.

* * *

Next time we start bickering because he hasn't changed his appearance. Again. I'm tired of asking. I tell him to 'take that face off' immediately. He stands up, his face is almost on the same level as mine. He brushes my fringe off, touching my skin lightly, and his touch sends tingles down my spine.

"I'll take it off as you so eloquently put it if you get your scar back."

Ah, yes. I had a feeling it would come to this. I 'erased' the scar as soon as I realized you could do any sort of 'plastic surgery' in this world. My forehead looks weird without it. Too… empty, so to speak.

"Why would you want it back?" I ask.

"I gave it to you. I like seeing it. Might I ask in turn why you would want my older self back?"

I roll on my back. This way I don't have to look him in the eye when I speak. "Because you used to be the scariest thing in my life. Whereas now the role of my greatest nightmare has been taken over by the Dark Lord Real Life."

He laughs. Oh, wow, he actually _is_ laughing. Worse than that, it turns out to be highly contagious: soon I'm laughing with him.

* * *

The first thing I say when I come back to the dream a couple of days later is: "Happy anniversary!"

He fell asleep exactly a year ago. I've been visiting him already for a couple of months. The point of my visits is finding out what the last Horcrux may be. We never located it. I used to think it was his snake but it turned out I was wrong.

"I have an idea. How about you start cooperating at last?"

"And get executed? I have a better idea, my dear Harry." Voldemort leans into me and whispers: "Why don't you give me back my wand and let me go free?"

It sounds so absurd that I'm promptly on my knees, laughing so hard that my breath comes out in short gasps.

"See?" Voldemort grins. (Oh my God! He _grins_!) "It sounds stupid, doesn't it? Then why should I do something as stupid and improbable for my part?"

I shrug. How should I know, Mr Unpredictable? Well, he doesn't want to cooperate so here we are once again in silence, pretending the other doesn't exist. Voldemort's drawing, I'm studying. Jolly, isn't it?

"By the way," I remark nonchalantly some time later. "Even if I was insane enough to give you back your wand, you'd have no use for it. You're sleeping, remember?"

"You bring books in here. You could bring my wand the same way."

I accidentally drop a book; he catches it in its flight and holds it up to my face. Why do I think he has something on his mind? Ah, I guess it's because evil dark lords simply should not be trusted.

Voldemort smiles innocently. "I had to try, Harry."

"Sure you did, Tommy," I reply before the meaning of the words actually reaches my damned mind. I called him by the forbidden name, and now he's very-very angry.

I burst out laughing and cannot stop myself. Oh, God!.. Before I will have fallen a victim to the Dark Lord's wrath I let my dream dissove and carry me away to the real world. I wake up abruptly, sit up, and my heart is thumping somewhere in my throat. He really managed to scare me this time. His eyes flared crimson for a split second like they did when it was still Voldemort.

I hide my face in my palms for an instant. When I look up, I feel much better. I guess I shouldn't visit him for a while to give him some time to settle down.

Damn, it was funny!

_Tommy_…


	2. Come In Closer

**Title**: "Spiritus Mundi"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-war

**Summary**: HP/LV Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + When his two best friends get married, Harry feels even more lost in the maze of his feelings for his arch-enemy and his love for Ginny. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling… (For the funny bout of panic see chapter 1) The name for the chapter comes from the song by _Blue October_.

**Special thanks**: to Mizstorge for beta-reading

**A/N**: OMG, guys! Thank you so much for all the reviews! I can't believe the first chapter got so many reviews! You've made me so happy!

* * *

**Chapter 2**

_**Come In Closer**_

The fiddles whine, the rhythm goes faster and faster, taking the dancers, gripping them and swirling them in a hurricane of passions. It looks like an old Celtic dance, wild, untamable, free. I can't hold back a smile.

A hand reaches out in the air and throws up a handful of flower petals: red, white, pinkish. The wind catches them, and they float in the air, dressing the dancing couples in intricate medieval streamers.

Hermione is so beautiful. I can't take my eyes off her. The skirts of her pale green dress ("Anything but white!" she said stubbornly. "I don't want to look like my own wedding cake!") sway about her as she dances. Small flower buds in her hair glisten with drops of dew.She looks just like… magic.

I didn't know Ron could dance until I saw him with Hermione. When the dance is over, he holds her gently, her head against his chest; he brushes the lock of hair off her forehead; he plants a kiss on her temple, and she laughs. She has such a beautiful, rich laugh.

The dance begins again. I don't dance,but I'm standing in the circle that claps and cheers. Hermione's skirt sweeps past my legs, so close that I can see tiny dark-green leaves embroidered on the lighter fabric. Ron grins. I can see Bill lean into Fleur during the dance; he whispers something in her ear, she flushes, and then he kisses her lips tenderly. Tonks wraps her arms around Lupin, dragging him on to the dance floor. It seems extremely funny.

I catch Mrs Weasley's glance and smile at her sweetly. It's pretty hard for her, this could have been Ginny's wedding. At least she thinks so, and I don't want to disappoint her.

A young witch catches my attention. Brown hair, dark eyes, rather pretty. Weasley's very distant cousin. I shouldn't do this: not at my best friend's wedding, not when my best friend's sister (a.k.a. my girlfriend) has been in coma for a year. Besides, it's not some unknown Muggle girl. The next day she might be bragging about how she–.

Who am I trying to fool? We end up kissing passionately in a closet as she hastily unbuttons my shirt, as I take off her funny old-fashioned corset… Honestly, I could sink no lower.

* * *

Having defeated the slight tremour that wouldn't let me fall asleep peacefully, I drift off into the dream. I'm impressed by the change of decor: we are at sea. I don't mean the seaside, but the sea itself: sensual, moving slowly, alive and glimmering with thousands of sunbeams that glide across its surface. The tree remains in the middle of it. The canopy of leaves casts a cool shadow, shielding the roots from the sun. Voldemort is doing the same thing he always does when I come around. His charcoal pencil makes soft,rustling noises upon the paper. The water splashes quietly around the mighty roots of the tree.

"Not gonna try to kill me?" I ask right away. He flashes me an indifferent glance and goes back to drawing. "I thought that was why you poured an entire ocean here: to drown me."

He chuckles. I hate it when he chuckles because it's such a strange, beautiful sound… Against better judgment I take a seat next to him and peek atthe sheet that lies on his knees. This isn't quite what I've expected. It's _my_ portrait. And to give him credit, he has captured me perfectly. 'Captured'… Ironic, isn't it? I feel like I'm looking in amirror.

"I hope you asked her name in the end," Voldemort remarks. I know he refers to the witch in the Burrow.

"Er… Cinna, I think. Why do you care?"

"Tell me about her."

I gape at him, then close my mouth with a loud clicking nose. I don't care much about how ridiculous I probably look.

"No way! You don't tell me about your private life, do you?"

"Oh, that's easy," Voldemort snorts. "I don't have one."

I tilt my head back and squint at the sun. It blazes like a huge patch of gold, and the sky above us is light blue and warm, the very definition of summer.

It's not summer outside.

Hell, it feels ludicrous to discuss my love life with _him_.

"I love Ginny," I say to him, and no one in particular at the same time.

His eyes twinkle mischievously as he turns to look at me. I cut to business as soon as I feel the steady ground beneath my feet shake.

My questions provoke a rather unexpected reaction. Voldemort starts to his feet, leans into me and murmurs:

"Why won't you be honest with yourself, my dear Harry? Why won't you admit it: you're not here because of the whole damnable Horcrux situation! You just what to know of sort of a spell was cast on your dying girlfriend. The point is, I can't help you there. It wasn't me who cast it."

"And if you knew what spell it was," I whisper almost plaintively after I finally recover my voice, "would you tell me?"

He drops the painting, and it sinks. The water swallows it without a sound.

"I would have given it a bit more thought."

* * *

I've been sleeping a lot these days. It seems that sleeping has become my hobby. I have no more nightmares, only occasional white nights. I spend every spare minute at night with Voldemort. He still refuses to answer my questions. My supervisors at the Department think I've grown too dependant on him. Ahh, four months and he isn't tired of his little game yet. I know that type of personwell enough. My Uncle Vernon is like that in a way, though a tad more… brainless and impatient. He likes to make me feel worthless.

Voldemort tells me I'll make a good Auror. Not a hintof mockery in his reserved tone. Sometimes he even looks through my textbooks and helps me out with particularly difficult passages. Is it me, or does he really act differently in this world?

Give me a break, he's _Voldemort_, after all! Must be a part of another cruel plan to show me my place. Been there.

He already drew three portraits of me. I forbade him to paint my parents, so he's switched to me. I'm afraid to look at these pictures. They are too perfect, every small detail duplicating reality.His pencil scratches the zigzag line of my scar in a sharp, precise motion.

I failed the second theory test, and in addition to that I also managed to catch a cold. I'm shivering in my bed in the grip of fever, my throat is raw, and I can barely breathe. My teeth chatter as I chant the incantation, trying to make every syllable sound as clear as possible.

I am not sick in the dream world, just like I don't have the scar or the glassesThe only thing that reminds me of my pitiful conditionin reality is a nasty rasping feeling in my throat when I speak.

Today I'm frustrated and angry, and I have no desire to disguise it. I climb up my branch without even saying 'hello'. I don't care how Voldemort looks, nor do I have any intention of interrogating him. I've been under a lot of pressure recently: Kingsley and Nichols (the other senior Auror who's in charge of the Death Eaters' cases) want results Nichols suggested we try something else.

Last time we talked I scowled, "Like what? Torture, for example? Oh, you sure as hell managed to fish a lot out of Greyback and Macnair by torturing them in Azkaban!"

Today I'm here just to remind Voldemort I won't back down. I'll stand my ground and I won't let anyone control me. They think I'm incapable of making him talk. I _will_ make him talk. Just not today. Today,I'll let him know I will be here as long as it takes.

Voldemort looks at me curiously. I feel the need to smash that handsome face of his.

"What is it, Tommy?" I snarl, emphasizing the name. I don't give a damn about how he feels towards it. "Never seen a messed up Harry Potter?"

It's weird but Voldemort is being incredibly civil. He asks what has happened. I wish I knew…

"Bad case of being the third wheel," I confess all of a sudden. "My best friends got married, so I'm kind of out of place in their company. It makes me feel like shit. And now I'm ill. and I'm a loser and I have no idea why I'm telling you this!"

His fingers graze my cheek, and I'm trembling. He breathes in my ear "The man who triumphed over the great Dark Lord Voldemort a loser? Is that so?"

"Hang on," I say huskily. "Are you trying to make me feel better?"

His expression nearly makes me cringe. It seems he's going to smack me. I'm very glad that he has no wand.

"I just hate the implication that I was defeated by a loser," he points out.

His whisper is a rather sinister sound. It slithers along my skin, making it crawl. I try to define the colour of his eyes but I'm so used to seeing them in scarlet that they seem nearly colourless now. And very big. Larger than the sky itself.

My heart is pounding. I try to shift on the branch but Voldemort places his hand on my waist, holding me in place. I inhale, and choke as if a huge clot is stuck in my throat.

I don't dare breathe.

He brings his face closer to mine (as if there can be any closer, damn it!), his breath scorches my skin, and I'm suddenly hot, so hot, I'm on fire, ready to explode. My thoughts race. Why the hell does he affect me so?

I draw forward. I want to tell him to back away because he annoys me and makes my stomach clench (scratch that last!), but my lips collide with his, and he bites at me, savouring the feel of my lips against his. I gasp into his mouth. The pressure of his hand on my waist is light, but it feels like he's pinning me to the hardness of the goddamn branch.

I feel like I'm in the middle of consuming an entire bottle of strong firewhiskey. My throat is burning, I need more air, but I can't find the strength to interrupt it. I moan quietly. It's almost a whimper. I'm only glad that he doesn't move. He breaks the kiss off abruptly and steps down from the prominent root. I gasp for air, trying to regain control of my shaking body. I want more, though I know I shouldn't.

He definitely made me forget about my problems for a while.

I climb down clumsily, bump a bruise on my knee (amazing how real all these sensations feel in this artificial universe) and scramble up to my feet. I'm shaking. Lust builds up within me, the same passion that drives me to those clubs at night, the same adrenaline that makes me return to this world over and over again though somewhere in the back of my mind I realize that I will not make him talk. He's just too stubborn; we have that in common.

Voldemort grabs me by the elbow, pulls me closer, so close that my body is in fact pressed to his.

"I need to go," I mumble.

"Not before you promise me you will come back tomorrow. I will not tolerate it if you abandon me for a week for another wretched hussy!"

"I–. Let me–."

"Promise me, Harry!" his voice thunders in my ears. He doesn't speak that loud but I'm overwhelmed. When he calls me 'Harry' it affects me almost as much as it affects him when I call him 'Tommy'. Although it's not that funny.

"All right, all right!" I shout at him. The grip on my arm is loosed, and I tumble backwards, hitting the trunk with my spine. The pain is dull and immediate. "I'll come! I'll be here, I _promise_!"

I wake up and roll to my side with a muffled moan. My body is covered in sweat, and damn, I've just had _that kind of a dream_ about Lord Voldemort.

He kissed me.

I hate him because it felt a little too _good_, like liquid fire in my veins.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME!? Why am I talking to myself? Why do I desire those dark forbidden things that have their dwelling in the dreams of my greatest enemy? Why can't I learn the wretched theory? Why do I cheat on the girl I love? She is the best thing that happened to me! Why can't I hold on to whatever blessings have been given to me!?

I summon my wand, change the bed sheets with a quick flourish and take a look at my watch. _Aaarrrgh_! It's four o'clock in the morning! I curse Voldemort for being such a relentless nightmare, and drag my misfortunate, sick body to the kitchen. The night is considerably long when you're insomniac. But I'm afraid to fall asleep again. It takes hard concentration to end up in Voldemort's dreams, even though he's more than willing to let me in; but when I've just gotten out of it, it can easily suck me back in if I go back to sleep. Not a very good explanation, I know.

I yawn and make some coffee. The hours of waiting are going to be long…

* * *

The nurse at St Mungo's beams at me when I set foot inside the room.

"Mr Potter! Long time no see!"

"Yeah… I've been busy," I mumble, averting my gaze. I feel awkward. It seems to me that everybody knows I'm lying. All my problems are just no excuse for not visiting Ginny.

I'm unpleasantly surprised to find Mr and Mrs Weasley by Ginny's side. It's not that I don't want to see them. But they're engrossed in a heated argument with the doctor, and a little panic grips my heart. It's been ages since Ginny laughed, smiled chatted cheerfully in her usual manner. She's scarcely able to breathe on her own. Muggle doctors would have given up months ago. But here in St Mungo's they keep stubbornly looking for the cure

"Harry, dear!" Molly exclaims. Mr Weasley turns to look at me and flashes me a pale shade of his usual warm smile.

The doctor walks away, and I ask what the matter is.

"We just want to take our girl home," Mrs Weasley says, trying to hold back the tears. I frown. "The doctor thinks she'll be better off here but I know Ginny. I know she would want to wake up at home. I'm sorry, Harry, I just–."

And she breaks down. Her motley shawl flickers before my eyes as she storms out of the room, sobbing. Arthur comes closer and whispers: "Make him talk, Harry, please. He knows how to cancel that damn spell, I'm sure he does!"

He goes to find his wife. I have a few minutes alone with Ginny before the doctors comes. I wrap my fingers around hers, amazed how cold my hand feels next to hers, delicate and warm. And I kiss her on the lips, tears forming in my eyes.

Ginny opens her eyes abruptly, gasping, choking as she inhales. I recoil, the stool tips over. She eyes me, startles, almost as astonished as I am. Her face is deathly pale, dark shadows lie beneath her eyes.

"Don't kill me," she mouths. "Don't do it."

I want to move, to hold her in my eyes, to kiss her crown and assure her I'd never hurt her – but I can't move. I'm standing stock-still opposite her. Her chest heaves with with each breath, it's too hard for her to talk, but she keeps repeating, "Don't do it. Don't kill me."

I fall to my knees. The vase with a bouquet one of her brothers must have brought crashes on the floor. The water splashes, the stems of the flowers snap.

"Rescue me, Harry," Ginny pleads.

I'm snapped out of this reverie when Mr Weasley's hand pats my shoulder lightly. I bounce up and discover that Ginny's still deep in coma on the bed. I must have fallen asleep. I sweep my fringe back, my breath erratic. The doctor is standing on the doorstep. Mrs Weasley looks at me with deep concern. I nod to their unvoiced question; I'm okay.

I leave before they come to any decision. I can't bear to stay there waiting, to look at her like that. I still have a lot of time before I will have to return to Voldemort. I take a walk to the Ministry, knowing I will have to face Nichols and to endure his inquiries today. Beautiful start to a beautiful day!


	3. Let's Talk

**Title**: "Spiritus Mundi"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-war

**Summary**: Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + Harry has troubles with his superiors. Meanwhile, Voldemort agrees to talk, but on his own conditions. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling…

**Special thanks**: to Mizstorge for beta-reading

**A/N**: Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews! Seriously, guys, you're my inspiration! Even you, my dear flamer! Did you ever for one bloody second think your trash reviews could upset me? ;)

* * *

**Chapter 3**

_**Let's Talk**_

_I tripped and fell, holding my hand pressed to my knee. It began to throb as the pain spread through the leg. My face was covered in dust, only the bleeding scarlet scar stood painfully bright against my forehead._

_My right eyebrow was broken. Blood trickled down my temple, dripping on my eyelids. It obscured my vision. I brushed aside the fringe drenched in blood and looked around. It was hard to breathe because of the foul smoke that poured in puffs from the burnt ruins of Riddle Manor._

'Crucio!'

_A high-pitched scream pushed itself out of my throat. Oh God, please, just let me pass away! I don't ever want to be in pain anymore!_

_But the pain wouldn't go away. The spell wouldn't fade. Convulsing in the Cruciatus-induced agony, I writhed on the ground, gasping, moaning, whimpering – my concentration was ruined, the attack came unforeseen… nothing I could do about it… failed…_

_"Get up, little Potter!" a woman shrieked. My name almost drowned in abrupt laughter._

_I recognized the demented creature. Her voice, how could I ever forget it? Even if I wanted to… I reached for my wand – yes, yes, one more inch closer, got it! – and I sent the curse right back at her, _meaning_ it, meaning every bloody syllable of it. And she collapsed, unable even to scream. I wanted her to whine, to beg for mercy, but she became mute. The pain made her powerless._

_"What's the matter, Bella?" I cried out. I used the name the Dark Lord had always used with her. During our last fight she bragged about being his favourite; we were about to see if it were true. "Where is your beloved master? Why isn't he here to save you?"_

_She could only look at me with dim eyes. I had already destroyed her._

_I didn't have to do it. but I did. I imagined Sirius falling through the Veil. I thought that because of her I'd never see him again. I remembered how she'd tortured Neville's parents. I remembered how she'd looked at Neville; she'd probably wanted to finish the job._

_I said, _'Avada Kedavra!'

_It's strange that a couple of words can kill. A couple of words combined with that sinister green flame… I tried not to look back when I left Bellatrix's body. I felt no guilt. Should I have?

* * *

_

"Potter!"

I give a start of surprise, drop the pencil I've been toying with, and I realize that Nichols is looking directly at me. From the corner of my eye I notice Kingsley, who's giving me some strange signs.

"How nice of you to join us, Mr. Potter," Nichols drawls in his low unpleasant voice. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything important. Surely daydreaming is a tiresome and responsible activity; you cannot afford to be distracted."

The last word sounds menacing. I give myself a mental slap.

"So Shacklebolt here tells me that you have no progress concerning You-Know-Who. That's very aggravating. You do realize, Mr. Potter, that we cannot let him stay like this forever. So we either find a way to wake him up, or we gain information now and quickly!" And then he utters something that makes me grit my teeth in silent anger. "However, should you find yourself unfit for this work, the Department will be sure to replace you with a more experienced employee."

I let the words drop listlessly. "I shall give you all the information you need, Mr. Nichols."

The corners of his mouth twitch up in a smug smirk. I drill him with a hard gaze until he walks out into the corridor and then I spit: "He hates me."

"No, he doesn't," Kingsley replies.

"Yes, he _does_! He hates me the way Snape used to hate me at school."

Kingsley sits back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach, and says calmly: "Stephen belongs to the breed that cannot stand another's success. It's your reputation that does it. I'm not saying that he envies you. It's just that Steve thinks you're here because of your fame and your victory over You-Know-Who."

"I'm more than willing to prove him wrong."

After a few minutes of heavy silence Kingsley asks in a low voice: "So how has it been with you two? What do you usually talk about?"

"We don't actually talk as much," I admit reluctantly. "It's more like I do something and he does… he draws, you know."

Kingsley arches an eyebrow at me like I've just said something ridiculous and utterly improbable.

"Does he? Somehow I never thought the Dark Lord would fancy art."

I shrug thoughtfully. Neither did I, for that matter. To be honest, I never thought Voldemort would do anything else other than continuously plot to destroy me.

"He's pretty good at that, you know. Seems like he's really got talent."

"Well, then he's not entirely lost," Kingsley remarks. I bite my lip to suppress a grin. For some reason I just don't feel like smiling but a smile really tries to show up. "Just make sure there's nothing personal between the two of you. No desire to avenge those who you lost…"

Kingsley's voice sounds grave and heavy with warning now. I can tell that he, too, is annoyed with the delay, but unlike Nichols he's my friend and he tries to show some understanding.

As if having read my mind, Kingsley hastens to comment: "Four months is not such a long period of time. And when it comes to You-Know-Who, the Boy Who Lived is probably the best choice, passing over the professionals. I just want to make sure _you're_ in control of the situation, not _him_."

I nod firmly. I don't know how to make him believe me. He'll just have to take my word for it.

I muse a lot about Voldemort and all this awkward situation. He's at our mercy, but why do I not feel like the victor I'm supposed to be?

I try to put my thoughts down when I come home. About him, about Ginny (including my recent hallucination in the hospital ward), about everything. I'm not good at writing even when it's for personal use, so the entry looks like a first year's essay on Potions written in a trembling hand of a child who's scared of his own shadow after having met his Professor. Yes, I'm still under the impression…

But at least now that everything's organized I feel a little better.

When I go back to Voldemort at night, I can't help but tremble nervously. Our last meeting didn't go very well, after all. Once again, the first thing I notice is a change of the scenery: it's a beautiful flower garden, the tree is in the middle of it surrounded by high grass billowing in the wind. One thing keeps me on the lookout: Voldemort is nowhere in sight.

I know he can't hurt me here, we saw that. But still, I sense some plan has been put to action and it unnerves me.

"Don't turn around."

I freeze. His hand is on my shoulder, compressing it gently. I can feel his lips barely touch the back of my neck. His breath makes the hairs there rise.

"I wish you'd stop doing this," I say, appalled at how weak my voice sounds now that he's so close to me.

"Shh," he interrupts me. "I've been waiting for you to show you my latest idea. Take a good look."

I peer into the skyline, trying to understand what he wants me to see. The sky is tender blue, the same vibrant colour that was shining above the sea. And then I see it: something is coming towards us. It's a swarm of insects, buzzing, whirling through the shimmering summer air. And they engulf us. They're butterflies, bright, multi-coloured, they sweep past us, and then they return, pouring golden powder on us. Their wings make barely audible rustling noises.

Simply beautiful. How can someone so evil create something so pure? Enthralled, I can't look back. Voldemort's lips glide along my neck. His tongue points tiny moist dots on my skin. I try to stop it, this is strange, this is abnormal, this is obscene. He wraps his fingers around my wrist.

"I like it," I say.

He chuckles; he must have misinterpreted my words. Ambiguity starts getting on my nerves. He senses it and remarks smugly:

"Oh, Harry, I wouldn't survive a day if I didn't know how aggravating I could be to you."

I walk off to the tree and sit down, glaring at him irritably. I relate my conversation with Kingsley briefly. Voldemort's face is unreadable.

"The point is," I conclude, "that I have problems because of you, so it's entirely up to you to solve them. Let's talk."

Voldemort nods. My heart skips a beat. But joy never lasts.

"What would you like to talk about, Harry?" Voldemort asks suggestively. "The weather? Or the wonders of nature?" He gestures at our oak nonchalantly. "Or perhaps, Lizzie?"

I lower my head and ball my fists, digging my nails into the softness of my palm. Lizzie is the name of another girl I met a few days ago before I fell ill.

"You are really enjoying this, aren't you?"

Voldemort's lips tremble slightly. Suddenly his face brightens into a full-fledged smile. A breathless 'yes' comes out. One word hits me like a bullet, flat in the chest.

He wants to play.

"This is not a game!" I growl.

A gust of wind sweeps past me. The sky darkens, becoming leaden and heavy. The thick scent of rain saturates the air.

The storm breaks through the clouds. Thousand of raindrops crash down, bathing me in cold. They spin and whirl around me. I'm soaking wet. Streams of rain slide beneath my neckband, slip down my back. I shiver.

The rain ends as abruptly as it started. Sun glimmers through the soft layer of clouds.

"_Everything_ is a game to me, Harry," says Voldemort, smirking.

"All right!" I almost yell. My voice sounds hoarse and strained. What if they're right? What if I can't control him? "What are the rules of the game? If I play along will you answer my questions?"

"Come back tomorrow. I will tell you the rules."

I open my eyes in the darkness of my room and lie motionless for some time, staring at the ceiling. My alarm clock is ticking on the night-table next to the pack of pills for cough. I feel about for my glasses. Six in the morning. Loads better, indeed.

* * *

The scent of flowers hangs heavy in the close air. The atmosphere in the greenhouse is moist, saturated with fumes of warm earth. Like aforest after rain.

Neville tries to tame a huge flesh-eating geranium (at least, that's what it looks like). It rumbles, trying to nibble his finger when he extends his hand towards the gap between its leaves. Some weird thing that looks like a thick green tongue aims at him, but Neville proves to be faster.

I grimace at the plant. Neville grins.

"Would you say fighting dark wizards is safer than this?"

"Dark wizards don't bite," I parry. "Not all of them, at least."

The Ministry would have my head on a plate if they found out I've been discussing the details of my dealings with Voldemort with my friends. But I have some naïve, unshakable trust in Neville. Somehow he knows how it feels. We have a lot in common. I still shudder at the memory of how he looked at me when I killed Bellatrix. As if saying: 'She should have been mine.'

Neville has become a famous herbologist. I can't contain a smile when I look at him dressed in his medical robes, walking about the hotbed, checking up on his plants with an air of pompousness. Where's that clumsy boy that used to break everything he touched (and didn't touch, for that matter)? He is still a bit awkward but he's been to a battle now… I don't know how to formulate it, but it does change a person.

"I'm not so sure it's a good idea, Harry," Neville draws out when I tell him about my last meeting with Voldemort. "I mean, will you really let him lay down the rules? I think I saw a film a couple of weeks ago. It was pretty much about your situation."

"Hmm?" Here it comes. Neville's been watching too much Muggle television these days. His grandmother was a pretty orthodox Pureblood witch and she thought Muggle television would spoil 'imagination and taste'. Can't blame her.

"There was this scary killer in prison. And an FBI agent came to seek help to locate another killer. He agreed to help but in turn he started asking questions. Private questions, you know."

I shake my head. Nice movie. I think I saw it too, a long time ago, at night, when the Dursleys were asleep. I had to cover my mouth with my hand to refrain from crying out every time something unexpected happened on the screen.

"The title's is something about sheep," Neville says.

"Lambs. And come on, Voldemort knows more about me that I myself do! He doesn't need to ask me any questions. I'll do the talking."

Unimaginable! He still flinches at the sound of the Dark Lord's name. I thought I'd beaten it out of all the members of the DA.

"Just be careful," Neville shrugs.

I do have wonderful friends! Friends who watch Muggle television and can see a parallel between my greatest enemy and an insane cannibal from an old thriller. Friends who get married and leave me alone. Friends who warn me against my own superiors and do nothing to help me out. Bitterness in my voice is so thick you can cut it with a knife. I love my friends but sometimes I'm just so lost.

Great! Talking to myself again. Hello, St Mungo's? Harry Saint Potter has gone utterly insane. Do you have a spare bed next to his comatose girl-friend? And another one specifically for his theory textbooks.

This reminds me that I need to go home to do some homework. I'm such a bookworm now; Hermione should positively be jealous of me.

Naturally I fall asleep very soon. These studies are just so boring. The dream welcomes me. It's still a flower field and it makes me glad: I like this decoration.

"Where are my butterflies?" I ask theatrically.

"Do you want to hear the rules?"

I nod. Voldemort motions for me to sit down. My vivid imagination pushes forward a weird image of a horribly long scroll where all the instructions are written in detail. I'll just have to sign some sort of agreement. In blood.

"I tell you one fact per meeting," Voldemort says. "One random fact about where the Horcrux is hidden. Only one. After that – no questions until the next meeting."

He falls silent. I wrinkle my nose. Is that it? That's… not bad. His eyes are fixed on me. I knit my eyebrows, expecting something worse. He has beautiful eyes. Have I already mentioned that? No matter, he has very beautiful, mesmerizing eyes.

"And you have to grant one wish of mine."

Here comes the worst. I throw up my hands, indignant.

"What else? The moon from the sky? Come to your senses! I can't bring you the wand, or let you go, or help you conquer the bloody world! It's just…"

"Not the Harry Potter way," he laughs. This bastard is _laughing_ at me. I feel like slapping him. "Relax, Harry, I don't ask for the impossible. Some small insignificant wishes, that would be quite enough."

I pout. He looks at me, almost grinning (oh how I hate the way he grins; it makes his face look almost… real, and such beauty is not supposed to be real!).

"And by the way, Harry," he notes sardonically. "Since when do I require someone's help in conquering 'the bloody world'?"

I should probably say no. I should go home, prepare a dreamless potion and sink into the healing, all-powerful darkness of a sane sleep. I should report to Kingsley as soon as possible. I should, in the end, step aside and let the specialists take care of this abominable thorn in my side.

But does the great Harry Potter, the boy wonder who somehow lived (when no one clearly asked him to do it!) ever do what he should?

_I. Don't. Think. So._

"I knew you wouldn't turn me down," Voldemort whispers. "Now tell me: where would you like to go? I'm a little tired of staying here even though I can change whatever I like. Let us take a walk around the world. Where do we begin? Someplace exotic?"

It's the first time he reconstructs his world while I'm present. Reality shifts, blurs and melts; I raise my head and breathe a hundred different streams of air in: the sweet-scented smog of a big city, the cloying heat of a desert, the fresh mountain chill. I'm on top of the world, all at once: the Eiffel Tower, the skyscrapers of New York, the mighty brick-red walls of the Kremlin, the pyramids bathed in golden sunlight, the deepest oceans and the richest forests. My head begins to ache. I'm overwhelmed, overjoyed, I want it to last forever.

He wraps his fingers around my hand. His touch feels so real, so earthly. How he loves to play the part of God!

He has the whip hand over me. I surrender. I'll gain control again… maybe a few minutes, a few hours, a few days later.


	4. Every Day Is A New Day

**Title**: "Spiritus Mundi"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-war, Harry is 19

**Summary**: Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + Harry falls deeper into the traps set by Voldemort; he also meets an old rival and attempts to make up. Life is getting even more hectic. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling.

**Special thanks**: to Mizstorge for beta-reading.

**A/N**: Honestly, I have the best reviewers in the world! Thank you so much!!! BTW, please, don't ask me what Lestrange there is in the end of this chapter, Rodolphus or Rabastan. I haven't made up my mind and, frankly speaking, it's not a vital piece of information. So it's simply Lestrange.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

_**Every Day Is A New Day**_

I thought I was dead when he took me to Indonesia. Dead and gone to Heaven.

The ocean was dark blue and smooth, breaking the isles into hundreds of pieces of velvet-green mosaic. We descended onto the largest island, flying like an arrow through the moist, hot air. I took a sip of it as if it were liquor. It was close, thick and sweet-smelling. I exhaled sharply and leaned against Voldemort's shoulder, feeling a bit nauseous.

We passed (or rather, _it_ passed _us_) through mines where people worked hard to get gemstones; through fields where high grass was so still it looked like an emerald mirror; through terrace-like slopes covered in rice and surrounded with palm-trees. The land was populated with people of ethereal beauty with almond-shaped eyes and smooth light-brown skin.

The jungle whispered softly in my ear. I didn't understand its language, but it became dear to me like I'd heard it before. Like a call from my long-forgotten past. And when I looked into the eyes of a tiger, I saw Voldemort. They were the eyes of a cold-blooded predator, yet not the one that kills mindlessly, just for sport. I knew there had been a solid reason behind Voldemort's killings. Perhaps in his poisoned, sick mind he had compared himself to a tiger that kills to sate its hunger, to assert its right for freedom and dominance.

There might be a reason for Voldemort to bring me here.

I lie back on the steep bank of a river that ripples through the grove. It's a borderline where the jungle retreats and gives way to human habitation. I deliberately asked Voldemort to stay away from cities; I think I've had enough of London as it is. I know why these dreams are so attractive to me: they're too far from what I call reality, too beautiful, too fantastic.

Much like the face and the body of Tom Riddle where there should be the reptilian features of Lord Voldemort.

"Is this real?" I ask, waving my hand around the landscape. "I mean, is it really like this? Or is it another of your modifications?"

"It's real."

"How can _you_ be fond of all this?" I demand impatiently as if it's a crime to love nature. "Never thought you could appreciate something so…" I stumble. He looks at me studiously. For the lack of a better word I say: "Impractical."

Voldemort chuckles. "Beauty is a very practical thing, Harry. It gives inspiration. And inspiration is everything."

"To do evil things?"

"Evil and beauty evolve from the same root," he shrugs. "Both true evil and true beauty make us weep."

I listen to Voldemort and I can't deny that he may be right. From a certain point of view. His words make so much sense that it frightens me. I roll on my belly and bury my face in the grass that smells faintly of honey. I can't tell if it is so or if it's an illusion; frankly speaking, it doesn't matter.

"The air smells of honey at night," says Voldemort. "Sometimes it's so intense that it seems you're at a pastry chef's shop."

"What are you talking about?"

"The smell of honey over the place where I keep the Horcrux."

I glare at him, annoyed to the point no words can describe. "How on earth is that gonna help, I wonder!? It has nothing to do with geographic coordinates!"

"Who said anything about geography, Harry?" he queries playfully.

Great! I sit up, throw up my hands and slam my fist into the ground. "Stop acting like it's all so funny!"

For Merlin's sake, who am I talking to!? Voldemort arches his fretted eyebrows at me, pretending that nothing is wrong. And then he takes me by the elbows and pulls me closer. I almost lose my balance.

"My wish," he murmurs. He's dangerously close again, and I'm transported.

"No," I give a faint response. "Not that."

Red sparks disturb the stillness of his dark eyes. "My wand, then?"

Resistance is pointless. Moreover, it makes me look pathetic. I don't want that. So I let him kiss me and I try to convince myself I _do not_ enjoy it, I _do not_ want more, I _do not_ lust after him, I do not…

I break the kiss off for an instant to gulp some air. He only asked for one kiss. Yet here I am sitting on top of him, ravishing his lips with the second, and the third, and the fourth long, passionate kiss, pressing myself hard against him, letting him take off my t-shirt. I start to say something. His reply echoes in my head like a bell chiming through the mist.

_This is not real, is it? – No, it's just a dream. – Why do I dream that way about you? I'm supposed to… - To hate me?_

He bites at my collarbone gently. All too gently. I gasp. I wish I could restrain myself, hold all the baleful desire back, lock it somewhere and never recall this moment of weakness. I fail.

I don't even know what we're doing anymore. It's like I've distanced myself from all the action and dived into the feelings. And now I'm spinning, spiralling into the very midst of nowhere, and his tongue collides with mine when he sucks me into another searing kiss, and he unzips my trousers, and I feel his fingers flit over my length…

Not real. Not real. Not real.

I bite my lip.

He licks away the beads of sweat over my brow. It tickles. I grimace contentedly. I thrust into his hand, chanting to myself: 'It's not real. It's not real.' But it feels so real. I've never felt so alive before.

And then it's over. I shudder against Tom, run my fingers through his hair, and I'm pleased to hear that his breath is as erratic as mine.

He presses his mouth to my chest. My pulse is thudding against my ribcage. He nips at my skin, sending jolts of renewed excitement through my body.

"Tom," I say breathlessly. "No… Stop, stop, stop."

He looks at me, waiting for me to continue, but I'm just staring at him, unable to utter a word. All I know is that I have to go but I desperately want to stay. I want to repeat everything we've done – for real.

No wonder that when I wake up in my bed, it feels cold and lonely. Nine a.m. I overslept.

* * *

The world is so dull and grey compared to my dreams. It rains outside, sidelong needles of silver rain beat into the window, and it's impossible to believe that overseas there is a fairyland I've been to at night. I can't concentrate. I keep seeing a slender Java dancer instead of Nichols's dull secretary; ancient pagodas instead of modern buildings; tigers and peacocks waving their tails coquettishly instead of cars and passers-by.

"Daydreaming, eh, Harry?"

I blink away the delusion, and there's just Tonks standing in front of me in the endless corridor of the Department.

"I was reading," I say defensively.

"Reading? With your fingers? As far as I know, you're not blind."

I close my textbook and move to let her sit. Her hair is a mass of dark-red, bright-violet and sunshine-yellow braids coiled over her ears. She flashes me a jolly grin.

"So how's it going? Got any results yet?"

She refers to my last test, the one I failed and had to resit. Re-evaluation is humiliating enough as it is, but examiners take special pleasure in simply torturing the trainees in all possible ways, especially by withholding the results until the student goes insane with waiting.

"Dunno," I shrug. "They won't tell me. I honestly thought N.E.W.T.s should be enough for theory."

"To enter the training program, yes. To go straight to operative training, you should probably have an 'O' in every subject, which is fairly impossible."

I laugh humourlessly. Tonks is right, of course. Even Hermione got one 'E' in the end. She was, to say the least, disappointed.

"You'll be fine," Tonks says, patting my shoulder. "Hell, even _I_ was."

"You're a natural-born Auror!" I protest.

"So are you."

The next thing I know is we have combat training cancelled. While they reschedule the next class, I take a walk through the Department, pondering this conversation. It seems only natural that I should be here. 'Born into it', as they say. Sometimes my stomach gives a light twitch: what if I've chosen the wrong career? Everybody compliments me that I'll make a good Auror, but is it so important now that Voldemort's already been captured? I have a very limited career choice: I have no talent for anything but sports, no perseverance for a clerk's position, no practical grip for business. I'm a fair flyer and a good fighter; more than a dumb soldier, but less than a valorous commander. Looks like the only thing I can do is to be a symbol, an object of fanatic admiration, the Chosen One, the legend, the Boy Who Captured Voldemort.

Engrossed in such unpleasant thoughts, I walk into a familiar face. He stands stock-still in the doorway, hands in his pockets. His face is contorted with disdain the moment he lays his eyes on me. He wipes it off; the usual mask slips back on. Residual self-image… Maybe Malfoy thinks he dreams it? I roll my eyes and want to pass, but the passage is so narrow we can't squeeze through past each other.

I have no time to stand there forever, so I step aside. He walks past, his robes brush against mine, and something unfurls in my stomach. Damn the little compassionate Gryffindor me!

"Wait," I call and step in front of him.

Malfoy drills me with a stern look. His grey eyes seem almost colourless in the dense twilight of the corridor. My cheeks are burning. I practically have to force the words out of my mouth.

"We had a bad start all these years ago. I thought we'd start over."

I hold out my hand to shake his. He looks down at it, then back up at me. Much like I did back on the train.

"I don't want your pity," he spits. Disdain blazes in his eyes. He feels humiliated; it's unbearable for him to see me so prosperous, so happy. But he doesn't know me at all! "Reveal your remarkable Gryffindor traits somewhere else. I don't need charity."

"It's not like that…" I trail off.

He has nothing to be pitied for. He is not a fallen enemy. He still has that amazing air of elegance and aristocratic arrogance, he is as handsome as ever, he has the future ahead of him. I was at his hearing. He was sentenced to six months in Azkaban and a criminal rehabilitation program. The trial period will be over in three months.

Malfoy leans into me and whispers vehemently:

"They think you're the hero, Potter. Well, go back to your pack of bootlickers, I'm sick of you."

As he walks away, I realize one very important thing. I go after him, saying:

"I don't pity you. I think you deserved what you got." He comes to a halt. His back is rigid; I can tell that he's listening. "But the war is over, Malfoy. I just want to heal the old wounds. Please."

He looks at me over the shoulder. I raise my hand again. He comes closer, touches it lightly, and I wrap my fingers around his hand, gripping it tightly. Malfoy releases a slow breath. And he smiles.

* * *

_I heard a strange noise and darted to the nearest row of bushes. I tried to keep my wand at the ready. My hands were shaking. A Death Eater cornered me and attempted to Stun me. I forestalled him and dashed to the nearby piece of wall that would make a good cover. The stench of smoke and burnt flesh was overwhelming._

_I pressed my hand to my nose, attempting to filter out the reek and crawled forward cautiously. Someone blocked my way. The man stepped on my hand with his heavy boot. I stifled a shriek. The wand rolled out of my hand. I raised my face to see the enormous smirk of Lestrange._

_Another smug comment. (Merlin, they're so predictable!) He punched me in the face, shattering my glasses. I dropped my head with a quiet yelp._

_Lestrange grasped a handful of my hair, pulled my head back and brought his face close to mine. His eyes gleamed feverishly._

_"I'm going to make you wish you'd never been born, Potter!" he hissed. It reminded me somewhat of Uncle Vernon. Ah, family ties!_

'_Accio…'_

_"No-no-no, my dear boy! Not this time."_

_Damn, how they all wanted to earn Voldemort's goodwill!_

_Lestrange stretched out his hand. My wand slid into it and disappeared in the creases of his robe. He dragged me to my feet and hit me again. I tumbled backwards, blood spluttered from my nose._

_"You'll regret what you've done, you little bastard!" Lestrange bellowed. He obviously meant Bellatrix. I highly doubted I'd ever regret anything concerning her._

_I gave him a cold blank stare. I was too exhausted to do anything. I was enraged when I killed Bellatrix, blinded by the memory of Sirius falling through the Veil. All that hectic anger was drained from my heart. I thought he'd kill me now or worse and I didn't give a damn._

_A small slithering sound reached my ears. Whispering, hissing. I skewed my eyes upon the ruins and saw a slick dark ribbon stream across the scorched place. And another one, and another one… There were dozens of snakes all around us. Their whisper grew louder. Pretty sure that Lestrange hadn't noticed them, I smirked._

-Help me, my friendsss!-_ I hissed in Parseltongue._

_The sound boiled in my throat. The snakes filled all the stones around us and surged up over the Death Eater. He dodged them and made a go for his wand. A snake dived out of his robe and drove its fangs into his hand. With dark satisfaction I watched them wind around him, moving, coiling against his wriggling body. _

_I summoned my wand and turned my back on him. My task was after all to locate the Dark Lord._


	5. Safe From Choice

**Title**: "Spiritus Mundi"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-war, Harry is 19

**Summary**: Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + Their trips continue; Harry grows even more dependable on Voldemort and understands Voldemort has more power over him than he'd thought. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling… I'm just bored.

**Special** **thanks**: to Mizstorge for beta-reading

**A/N**: Thank you once again for your lovely reviews! Summer exams are killing me, and your support keeps me going. I love you, guys.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

_**Safe From Choice**_

The next few weeks fly past in a blink of an eye. My days are dull, and feverish, and hectic; and my nights, bright and luminous, are filled with passion, adventures and constant battles with my consciousness. We surf the Asian coast: the turquoise waters of Thailand that run over the snow-white sands, the snow-covered peaks of Chomo-lungma, the boundless poppy fields of Myanmar, the brown mud of Cambodia that hides sapphires, these precious little fragments of the sky…

The clues are mostly insignificant: a cold yard of stone, a tree that grows ten paces away from the hiding place, any ridiculous thing that would pop up into Voldemort's head. I consider them utterly meaningless but I have to deal with all his hints and put them together like the tiniest pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. So far it's given me nothing but headaches.

Then comes America like a big map made of mottled bits of paper. We skip through two or three states a night; sometimes we linger for a day or two and he takes me back in time to show me the conquest of the West or the Trail of Tears.

"I don't understand," I ask the living textbook that stands by my side. "To recreate all that, you had to witness it personally. But that's impossible, isn't it?"

"Not necessarily. I was an assiduous pupil in my History class. I can show you one of the goblin wars if you like. History has many lessons for the living, magic and Muggle alike."

"Some other time, I think." It's best not to tell him I had a 'D' in History of Magic.

Then there goes Russia. It's too big to swallow at a single draught. We sweep through it chaotically, darting up to the cold waters of the Arctic Ocean and down to the Southern steppes. It's intoxicating to know that I've been to all those places when in fact I never left my bed in my small London apartment.

I'm lying on my back on the bank of the Lake Nero. The brittle feather grass grazes my skin. The sky above me is pale blue; daylight is beginning to dawn.

"'Nero' means 'marshland'," Voldemort says.

I cough, a feeble attempt to disguise a snigger. "Honestly, stop acting like you know everything!"

He'd have made a good teacher. At least I don't want to sleep when he tells me something. Don't know about the DADA but everything else…

He looks a bit over twenty, twenty-five at the maximum. His hair is longer and messier than that of his sixteen-year-old Horcrux. We're almost of the same height, but he's well-built; compared to him I look like a walking skeleton. Mr. Weasley still thinks I'm underfed.

"It is in Britain," says Voldemort.

I slam my fist into the soft mud. He must be joking!

"Oh really!? No way!"

"Potter!" he cuts me off. "Did you seriously think I couldn't have kept something so precious _anywhere_ else? Now, if I specifically say it is in Britain, then there is a reason for that."

It gives me a sudden jolt of anxiety. What's _that_ supposed to mean? Does he have _another_ Horcrux hidden somewhere in… the depths of hell?

He gives me no time to mull over these vexing prospects. His hand rests on my hip; he bends over me, and we kiss. His wishes are not always that radical: once he asked me to sing him a song (my face was as red as Ron's hair by the time I was done), and then he wanted a dog. I told him he could create one. He seemed opposed to the idea. In the end I found a homeless puppy and had to drag it to bed with me in order to transfer it to Voldemort's dream. Sounds insane, I know.

Right now the dog (that by the way is a fluffy black Newfoundland named Salazar a.k.a. Sally) is chasing birds by the water.

I push Tom away and look straight into his eyes.

"Why do you keep doing this? You're not like that, are you? I… _I_'m not like that."

"Like what, Harry?" His lips curve into a jeering, seductive smile.

"Look, if you're bored, I can bring you a whore!" I grumble.

I instantly picture it in my head: at first the poor girl lies in my bed doing absolutely nothing while I chant the spell and fall asleep, and then I sacrifice her to the lonely and lustful Dark Lord!

Tom lies down, his leg across my legs; his hand rests on my chest. My heart beats hard against his palm.

"You're not the cuddly type," I mutter.

"Not really, but I know you like it."

"Tell me more about the Horcrux."

The moment I said it I knew I did something wrong. Tom doesn't move (shit! shit! shit! NB: Stop calling him Tom!) but the weight of his hand gets heavier. He draws even closer to me and hisses against my skin:

_-'One random fact__', Harry. Wasn't that what I promisssed? Disssobedience just turnsss me on, ssso if I were you, I wouldn't play with fire.- _

He presses his mouth roughly against mine. I know I should do something: either surrender or play along. I'm scared of him. How the hell did I let it twist this way? I bite his lip hard enough that I taste blood. It pours into my mouth. Voldemort's blood. I let go and spit blood into his face. He jerks away, but he is still close enough, and the blood splatters in a red rain.

_-This is__ss going to cossst you dearly,-_ he whispers gravely.

I smile, intoxicated. Tom pulls my hair back from my face. I whimper and I hate it: I'm supposed to be brave and quiet. Even when he almost sinks his teeth into my vein, and it hurts like hell, and I'm thinking: 'What the fuck is wrong with me if I let him do such things to me!?'

The lake splashes serenely a few feet away from us. It's not exactly sunshine and butterflies with Voldemort; it never was. He's inside of me, he's everywhere, he's my entire world. The first time I heard his name I was eleven; could I have predicted that it would go this far? I don't think so…

I lick the blood off his face. He gives me the trademark sinister smile that makes his handsome features look less alive.

"It's fucking not fair," I whisper.

"What is?"

"You! Everything about you is so… complicated!" There it is. Not really what I wanted to say. But I'm getting so confused!

He silences me with a deep, rough kiss. And then this cruel, fascinating dream world around us falls apart as Voldemort loses his concentration for one tantalizing moment. I scream. Particles of dream dust float everywhere around us. It's bright golden, blinding, beautiful.

* * *

_I __caught Ginny in my arms, shielding her from another curse. I Stupefied the attacker, and we ran through the trees to get a moment of peace before the battle would start again._

_Ginny's lips glided along the line of my neck. Her breath was warm against my skin. And I was so cold, so cold. I hugged her and held her in my arms just to make sure she was safe. I had managed to keep them all unaware of my attachment to her. Now, all the signs of affection were out in the open; it didn't matter – everything would soon be over._

"_Stay safe!" she whispered. "Please, just be safe."_

"_I love you," I replied in a choked voice. "When it's all over–."_

_I didn't finish the sentence. I wasn't sure what I wanted to say anyway.__ The blast wave of a curse separated us. It hit me in the shoulder; my hand went numb, but a few seconds later stinging pain spread through it. I bit my tongue and swallowed a scream. I lost sight of Ginny_._ I could only hope she'd be fine.

* * *

_

I am obviously one of those masochistic types who can't help endangering themselves. This thought comes into my head in the morning (like all the wisest thoughts do). I brush my teeth, wash my face and put on my glasses. When I try to smooth my hair, I suddenly notice a big bruise that stands clear against the skin on my neck. That's the place Tom kissed at least a dozen times last night. I poke it with my finger to make sure I'm not dreaming. Ooh, I am wide awake. The simplest way to prove it is to take a look at my forehead: my 'lightning bolt' is still in place.

How come this 'gift' from the dream world is visible on my physical body!?

I can feel the entire spectrum of sensations there, but nothing can hurt me. And none of those things linger when the dream is over.

I erase the bruise with a quick spell and Apparate to Hogsmeade. It's my day-off, and I plan to visit Hogwarts.

I mount my new Firebolt and take a flight to the School. I haven't flown in a while. I rise higher than the clouds, throw my hands up and cry out victoriously. Here, in the sky, I am a nameless king of the boundless kingdom of blue and white. For a split second invisible crowds cheer underneath me, and a speck of gold passes me by at supersonic speed. If I squint, I can pretend I see its elaborate wings flutter like those of a dragonfly. My goal, my dream, my destiny is to catch it. The second my fingers lock around this little piece of sun I am absolutely happy.

"You've put on quite a show for our first years, Potter," Professor McGonagall says when I sit down opposite her in her office. "They saw you circling above the Quidditch pitch."

I shrug. "Well, you know… Image is everything."

She eyes me attentively; her stern face twitches, but a smile appears. She knows me too well.

"You probably want to speak to Professor Dumbledore. I'm sorry to tell you that he's temporarily indisposed."

"I beg your pardon!"

Just when I need his guidance so bad…

McGonagall tells me something's wrong with the canvas. A little accident… It goes in at one ear and out at another, but somewhere in my mind a half-formed thought flares:

'Way to go, Minnie!'

It is alien, out-of-place and too bold (I wouldn't dream of calling Professor McGonagall 'Minnie'!). I have a guess just who it belongs to. But how can his thoughts intrude into my mind when I'm awake? That's vaguely disturbing. Okay, edit: it's _very_ disturbing!

'Minnie' offers me her help, but I decline politely. I don't feel like discussing my Voldemort problems with anyone but Professor Dumbledore. His portrait has been of help these years; I certainly hope he's not damaged beyond repair.

I take another miraculous flight over the School lands. When I descend, I suddenly find myself surrounded by a gaggle of cheering first years. Their delighted squeals ring in my ears. Some of them want my autograph, the others just gape at me like I'm the next wonder of the world. Some ask me questions about Quidditch. I answer all their queries and I find it quite amusing.

"Is it true that you hadn't even had a lesson before you flew for the first time?" a curly-haired boy whispers in delight.

I can't help but smile. The facts of my biography have always been a public matter.

I spot Neville by the trees. Sometimes he drops by Professor Sprout's greenhouses to discuss another mutated water lily with her. He watches me with a small smile that suggests that he understands a lot more than he reveals. As always.

"You seem pretty good at this," he comments just as we walk back to the gate.

"Not really. Actually I'm a bit afraid of children. But if they talk about Quidditch… Heh, that's fine with me."

I tell him about Voldemort's clues. For a moment Neville's quiet and thoughtful.

"Give me a list of all the hints, will you?"

"Whatever for?"

"I'll try to find a solution!" he says, looking at me as if it were obvious from the start. Who would figure out Neville likes brain teasers?

It starts to rain. We barely make it to the shelter in time. I end up with a cough (my metabolism hasn't fully recovered from the flu yet) and toss in bed for a few hours before falling into a feverish sleep. The spell works just like the usual, and I start yelling almost the moment I see Voldemort.

We're in Kazakhstan now on the bank of a deep mountain lake. The ring of rocks sprinkled with velvet-green bushes reflects my indignant outcries. A meandering stream ripples down the rock; its peal travels in the air. I can almost feel the water splash over the smooth pebbles. The air is piercing fresh and still. Voldemort is stretched out on the grass, his shirt unbuttoned, hands beneath his head.

"How dare you intrude my thoughts during the day?" I shriek. "How the hell is that possible in the first place!?" His reserve annoys the hell out of me. "You're a sodding bastard; you've always been! I'm an Auror in training, a representative of the law! If you don't stop fooling around, I'll have you Kissed within a few days!"

My cheeks flush when I realize _what_ I have just said.

"Thank you so much for your enthusiasm, Harry," Voldemort purrs. "But I am not hiding anything. I told you before: spending too much time here may be harmful for your health. You're already beginning to imagine things."

"You-are-a-foul-lying-loathsome-sick-fuck!" I press menacingly. To my embarrassment, his voice affects me in the worst possible way: heat courses through my body, my very skin is aching for his touch.

He props up on his elbows, his eyes twinkle wickedly. I don't know where to hide from his daring gaze. I just rip myself out of the dream. The mountain wind whistles in my ears as I wake up and breathe slowly, cooling off gradually. My palms are sticky with sweat. I wipe them with the bed sheet irritably and lower my head back on the pillow.

I hate Voldemort.

* * *

**Before you ask: there's only one Horcrux. That thing about another one being hidden "in the depths of hell" was merely Harry's vivid imagination and his wariness of Voldemort. Also, that Horcrux is not Harry himself.**


	6. Honey

**Title**: "Spiritus Mundi"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-war, Harry is 19

**Summary**: Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + The Dark Lord's power is boundless. Harry gets a taste of it but he won't even remember that in the morning. Something terrible happens. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling.

**Special Thanks**: to Mizstorge for beta-reading.

**A/N**: Thank you for your reviews, guys! hugs This chapter is written in the past tense for those who feel tired of the present. But I will get back to the present again. Oh, and we get a lot of Voldemort alone here))) Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 6**

_**Honey**_

There's something wrong with me. I can't remember what happened yesterday. It drives me crazy. A few days passed since my confrontation with Voldemort. I didn't go back to him. Let him grow to miss me (insert a derisive smile).

To be honest, I'm in no mood for jokes. Something seems very-very wrong. Neville and I took a trip to the countryside and… Oh, I'd better keep it in order.

* * *

Someone was banging at the door persistently. I crawled out of the maze of sheets and leapt towards the door. I left my glasses on the night-table, so it took me a few moments to realize the blurred silhouette on the doorstep belonged to Neville.

"Hey, Harry," he chimed cheerfully, walking in.

I blabbered something sleepily, rubbing my eyes. Neville threw a sideways glance at the room (the bed was rumpled, the creased blanket hung over the edge, the pillow lay on the floor) and seemed to have realized something.

"Oh, I… I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"Uh, no, I'm fine," I waved dismissively at him. "What's wrong?"

"I think I know where the Horcrux might be."

I stared at him, astounded. "Hang on," I mouthed and rushed to the bathroom. I splashed a handful of water in my face to refresh myself. Back in the room I put my glasses on and made a clever face, waiting for Neville to speak.

"I put all the clues together," he said hastily. "Yard of stone – it's either something very old like a real yard, or modern: concrete and stuff. A tree – well, nothing curious about that…"

"Yeah, what about honey?"

My tone must have been a bit sardonic; at least Neville gave me a skeptic stare and went on: "At first I thought it was some kind of a pastry chef's there. But I remembered reading a book about–."

I rolled my eyes. When did Neville start acting pretty much like Hermione?

He took a page ripped out of a book out of his pocket and handed it to me. The page was frayed and tattered, with a lot of markings and stains of grease. Before I could have a better look at it, Neville burst into a hasty explanation.

"It's a Phantom Guard, the ghost of an evil witch that is usually summoned to guard something very important. She's very dangerous. Poisonous claws, dreadful howl and so on. But what's more important: the scent of honey accompanies her everywhere."

"Why honey?" I frowned.

"She feeds off the living energy," Neville shrugged. "Honey helps attract children. But _that_ is not the point! I looked through the lists and I located a few evidences of such witches' existence in Britain. And one of them supposedly lives in the area of a modern cemetery right _here_!" He pointed at a miniature map imprinted on the other side of the page with the tip of his wand and grinned triumphantly. "All of the geographical clues are true, then."

I grabbed my jacket and my wand. Impossible that Voldemort should tell me the truth. Impossible that Neville should deduce all this about the Horcrux. Yet here we were, so close already. I compressed my lips, determined to finish this pointless odyssey tonight, and so we Apparated.

* * *

It was indeed a graveyard exposed to the showers of silver starlight, a bed of dry weed encased in stone. The cold yard of stone. There were several trees scattered about the graveyard. I guessed that all we had to do was to count ten paces from each. Unfortunately we found nothing. Ten paces brought us to the middle of nowhere.

The closer we seemed to get to the Horcrux (and I had a feeling we'd come very close), the more uneasy I felt.

"Listen, we're unprepared," I said, gripping Neville by the elbow. "And there's clearly nothing in here. Let's come back later. I need to get the bigger picture."

"Of _what_!? It's here, I'm telling you."

If only I was so sure… I sniffed the air. Indeed, the faint scent of honey was floating all around us. I moved forward, explored all the trees and started counting ten equal paces to where the smell was more intense. I had a sweet metallic taste on my palate.

There.

I raised my wand and aimed at the thin air. There had to be something unless that lying bastard directed me into the wrong place.

'_Reveal your secrets!'_ I chanted.

Neville yelped, astounded, as the air stirred and melted down around a ramshackle wooden house with broken windows. I stepped back and stifled a gasp of wonder. They must have paved the concrete after the house was concealed beneath the magic curtain. And they built the cemetery around it. Nice place for a ghost.

We came in, holding our wands in front of us, the faint glow of the _Lumos_ spell lighting our way. I surveyed a staircase going up to the dark and dusty depths of the house, piles of old dirty stuff scattered all over the floor. I _hate_ old filthy houses that harbour evil secrets. Have I mentioned this before?

I trotted through the corridor and up the stairs, trying not to shiver as the floorboards made strained, sinister noises beneath my feet.

"I've just had this idea, you know," whispered Neville somewhere in the back. "You made him tell you exactly _where_ the Horcrux is. But he said nothing about _what_ it looks like."

I snorted wearily. Ditto.

Something rumbled behind me. I spun around, goggling at the darkness that condensed in the corridor.

"Neville? Neville! What the hell, it's not funny!"

No response. _Excellent_! This was getting worse with each passing second.

I dashed back to the stairway landing and caught a glimpse of a limp body sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.

"Neville!"

A ghostly figure materialized before me. Her hands were enveloped in dirty white sleeves, thrown up in the air like a pair of wings. She wailed in a shrill voice; the choking sound died in an outburst of hoarse laughter.

I took a step back. She lunged at me; I toppled over and tumbled down the stairs, tiny pricks of pain shooting through my entire body. Neville's body vanished. Right on time, damn it! Moreover, I couldn't see the ghost now, either.

I pressed my back to the wall and crawled towards the exit, clutching my wand tightly. If she was close, I couldn't sense it. I lost track of time. I'd been in this house for too long. My head began to ache. I felt dizzy.

I held my hand up to my face and wipe the sweat from it. My palm came away stained with red. I lowered my fingers to my neck and felt four deep bleeding furrows. She hit me. I stumbled and leaned heavily against the wall.

The wand slipped out of my grip.

Damn!

An intense smell of honey blew softly in my direction. The ground was shaking beneath my feet.

I stretched my hand out to summon my wand. A powerful gust of wind pushed it aside. I staggered and slid down, my back still against the decaying wood.

The ghostly witch appeared before me like something out of a bad dream. She knelt beside me, covered my hands with hers, pressing them harder to the floor. Her skin was sallow, her features were sharp; she sucked at the scratch marks on my neck, making small noises of delight. I grunted. My pulse quickened. It excited her. She mounted me, and I felt my power seeping into her. She tilted her head back, and an exultant shriek escaped her throat.

The air around me buzzed, electrified with power. Blood trickled from my ears. My eyes began to bleed, my parched lips were covered with tiny splinters and burning.

"Get off!" I demanded hoarsely. I was powerless in her grasp. And I spat in the fury of a stubborn, helpless child: "Arrrgh! Get the fuck off!"

She snarled at me, and I was torn out of reality and thrown into the chilly darkness, spiralling down into the honey-scented oblivion.

-----------

Voldemort opened his eyes and smiled. His hand shot forward, constricting around the ghost witch's throat. She wheezed and howled in agony.

"I created you," the Dark Lord whispered. "You are mine to command."

She threw her hand up and slashed at him. Her claws dipped into his cheek. He screamed, pushing at her fiercely. She managed to tear off the glasses.

Voldemort sprang to his feet. Damn, the boy was awfully short-sighted. He could hardly operate without glasses.

The ghost witch was upon him before he could locate the spectacles. She punched him in the back, flinging him into the wall. Voldemort span around.

"Accio wand!"

It felt intoxicating to have the wand in his grip, the brother of his own weapon, the Phoenix feather brimming with power inside it.

Voldemort brandished the wand and shot a curse, sending the demoness into exile back to where she'd come from. A blast wave knocked him off his feet. He lay face down on the floor while the fire raged in the room.

He grabbed his glasses. One lens was shattered; he repaired it with a quick spell and looked around. Unnatural stillness reigned in the house now that its guard was gone. Voldemort strode carefully down the hall until a shady figure that stepped out of the dark blocked his way. He threw up his wand, prepared to strike. The figure mimicked him. Its gaunt face was stained with blood. Voldemort inhaled deeply and burst out coughing, cursing Potter who didn't have enough prudence to dispel his damned flu. Finally he realized the figure in front of him _was_ Potter. He was staring in a big dusty mirror. A huge splinter crossed its dim surface.

Voldemort lowered his wand, releasing a small breath of relief. It was peculiar to look at the face that temporarily belonged to him, knowing it was the face of his greatest enemy. He touched his cheek, smearing blood all over his fingers; he ran his hand over his forehead, making the scar ache slightly. And he sneezed. His hands were covered in a thick layer of dust.

Voldemort wetted his lips. The sight of Harry Potter's reflection doing exactly the same was oddly exciting. Still not fully adjusted to this body, Voldemort reacted incredibly slowly. It was only now that the gleeful feeling of complete control over his helpless enemy filled him to the brim, and he drawled with the most charming smile: "Oh, Harry… You will lose everything just like I promised! And then I'll kill you, slowly, painfully, so that in the end you shall thank me for finally taking your miserable life." This fateful promise was uttered in a sweet, even tone without a hint of menace. The Dark Lord smiled, pleased with his little trick.

He pressed his fingers hard against the dusty glass; they went through the obstacle with difficulty. The glass melted into a viscous glue-like substance. His arm shoulder-deep in it, Voldemort grabbed a small object confined within the depths of the looking-glass and pulled it out. It was a bundle of fabric hardened with time and covered in dried filth, small enough to fit perfectly into the pocket of his jeans.

The Dark Lord came downstairs. The silence, interrupted only by the sibilant sound of his breath, was beginning to get on his nerves. His body's temperature seemed to be rising, plunging him into the chill of upcoming fever. Sweat mixed with dust turned into sludge that dried into a sticky scab all over his face. Voldemort balled his fists, exasperated.

"Double the torment for that, Harry!"

Someone tugged him by the sleeve. Voldemort recoiled; his hand shot forward.

"Harry! Harry, it's me!"

Voldemort clenched his teeth. Just that other boy, the one that had accompanied Potter here. His left eyebrow was cut deeply; blood still dribbled from the wound. He pressed his hand there, trying to control the blood flow. Guiding the hand away from the boy's forehead, Voldemort wiped the blood off with his handkerchief. The boy drew in a shaky breath.

"I'm sorry, Harry, I'm so sorry," he murmured perplexedly. "I tried to get to you–."

"It's all right," Voldemort interrupted mechanically. "Let's get out of here."

Longbottom's eyes were still wide with shock. "Where… where is she?"

"I sent her back."

They left the unstable shack behind and made their way through the rows of tombs back to the gate. Voldemort cast 'Incendio!' over his shoulder, setting the house ablaze.

"Did you find the Horcrux?"

Voldemort's fingers wrapped around the bundle hidden safely in his pocket. "It wasn't there," he informed Longbottom matter-of-factly.

"What!?" exclaimed Neville. "It's not possible! All the clues were… It had to be this place!"

"Someone might have already taken it. It wouldn't be the first time," Voldemort said thoughtfully. "Unless, of course, we've been intentionally lured into a trap. The Dark Lord is… a liar, you know."

Longbottom wrinkled his nose and nodded stiffly. He didn't seem very convinced. Voldemort grasped his shoulder and looked him in the eye, trying to keep the magnificent emerald green of Harry Potter's eyes untainted by the red of his own.

"Forget it, Neville. I'll deal with him tomorrow. He wants me dead; well, he won't have it his way this time."

He couldn't suppress a smile. For a moment he was almost willing to believe his words.

Back in Harry's apartment in no time, Voldemort checked the boy's stock of potion ingredients. It was a well-known fact that Potter's talent in Potions was abysmally low, which explained the lack of the necessary herbs and powders in his kitchen cupboard. Some of them were too dry, others damp and half-rotten. With a sigh of exasperation, the Dark Lord brewed a potion from what choices he had and swallowed it at a single draught. Soon the fever was gone, the dizziness had subsided, and the only thing that still remained of this body's pitiful condition was an overwhelming weakness that signalled he should go to bed as soon as possible.

However, the Dark Lord had other plans for the rest of this night.

He returned nearly at daybreak, put the Cloak back in the wardrobe and lay down on the bed. "So this is where the enemy sleeps," he chuckled. Ah, this was almost too easy.

* * *

I'm trying to recollect last night, but there's just no memory of what happened after I blacked out in the shack. How did I end up at home? Where is Neville now? Is he even alive? I blame the fever, the stress, my general absentmindedness, but I just know – there's something wrong here. Something unclean.

Guess Tommy and I are going have a _serious_ chat about this.

I hear ringing. I'm so tired that it takes me ages to deduce it's not ringing in my ears. I pick up the phone. The first thing I hear is a series of stifled female sobs.

"Harry…" Hermione's voice.

My hand drops. The receiver fell to the floor. A low thudding noise.

I don't ever want to feel this pain again…


	7. Breathless

**Title**: "Spiritus Mundi"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-war, Harry is 19

**Summary**: Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + Harry copes with another tragedy in his life and meets an old flame! ;) Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling. The song 'Broken Days' belongs to _For My Pain_.

**Special thanks**: to Mizstorge for beta-reading.

**A/N**: Yay! I passed Linguistics and Latin, 6 more exams remain! Thank you for your awesome reviews, guys, you're my constant inspiration!

* * *

**Chapter 7**

_**Breathless**_

You don't want to see,  
You don't want to feel  
Nothing but your hopeless destiny.  
You can always cry but never complain.  
All those bitter tears, will it ease the pain?

_Please-please-please, don't let it happen, don't leave me, don't go, don't leave me alone, I'm a wreck without you, I need you, I love you, I love you, I love you…_

I can't stop repeating it to myself as I run along the hospital corridor. It seems endless. I burst into the room. The doctor is in the corner by the window talking to Arthur; Mrs Weasley's head is on her husband's shoulder, she's crying bitterly. Hermione stands up to greet me. She's very pale, but her eyes are dry. Ron must be here too, just not in this room.

And Ginny's on the bed. Not breathing. I take these final steps towards her, hoping it's just a joke, some cruel joke, a bad dream, and she'll wake up, look at me, smile at me…

I'm paralyzed. I just stand over her, looking down, and I can't even breathe. She's so beautiful and so still. It's only now that I realize and the realization is painfully bright, obvious…

She – will – never – wake – up.

I turn to look at the door. Ron comes in with a tray carrying three steaming mugs. He says something; the words pass me by. I mutter some excuse and rush out of the room.

Hermione locates me a quarter of an hour later. I'm sitting in the corner behind the open door of an empty hospital room, holding my knees up to my chest. I try to bury my face there. It's so hard to breathe past all the tears that refuse to be shed.

What is wrong with me? Why am I like this?

Hermione hugs me and whispers words of consolation. I get up so abruptly that she nearly falls.

"Fuck…" I murmur. And then I yell: "Fuck! FUCK!!!"

"Harry…"

"I'm fine!" I shout hysterically. I don't know if I feel like crying or laughing. Or both. "I should have been able to do something! Merlin, I should have been able to save her!"

"There was nothing you could do," Hermione chides softly. "Don't blame yourself, please, just don't…"

I can't. It's my hero complex. My breath comes out in short gasps. I can't stop. I slam my fist into the wall. Where are those fucking tears!? I'm supposed to weep for her!

Hermione wraps her arms around me and kisses me softly on the temple.

* * *

They say a knight is nothing without his lady fair. I had hopes, I had dreams that my life would finally be normal. It would all come true if only Ginny woke up. But she's gone, and now nothing will ever be normal.

The sky is azure and very clear above her grave. For a moment it looks like I'm back in Voldemort's beautiful dream world. Fred and George wearing identical black robes watch the procession with glazed eyes. Bill lowers his scarred face to hide tears; Fleur's hand rests on his shoulder comfortingly. Ron is standing next to me, his lips compressed tightly as if he's afraid to open his mouth. Somewhere among the Ministry personnel I notice Percy. His face is blank and white as a skull. The freckles are dim and barely visible against the family's creamy white skin.

The second death of a Weasley child. I saw the same expressions at Charlie's funeral a few years back at the end of the war.

When Dumbledore died, I said to Ginny: "How do you think I'd feel if this was your funeral… and it was my fault…" Now I knew exactly how it felt.

I wander off as soon as the official ceremony is over. I just want them all to leave so that I can say good-bye to Ginny alone. I remembered the awe in her eyes when she begged, "Don't do it!" I was supposed to save her, god damn it!

Half of Hogwarts is here. Ginny's friends, my friends, the staff. I talk to Hagrid for a few minutes, and it actually makes me feel better. His was the first hello from the Wizarding World back in those days when I was 'just Harry', with no knowledge of my great destiny, with no weight of my responsibility and loss.

I see someone lurking behind a tree and smile. Malfoy. No one invited him, of course; nevertheless, I'm glad he came. I go there to have a few words with him.

"Are you all right?" he asks, trying not to look at me.

I shrug almost indifferently. "Not really. But it doesn't matter. Thank you for coming."

My words seem to make him feel even more uneasy. He clears his throat and mutters: "Yes, well, she was a pure-blood, after all."

I snort. Yeah, right.

* * *

I don't bother altering my image when I go to visit Voldemort. I'm still wearing the robes I've worn to the funeral, and my scar is still where it's supposed to be for real.

Tom looks at me and asks simply: "What's wrong?"

I don't have to explain anything. I just fall to my knees in front of him and growl: "Tell me you had nothing to do with it. Swear to me you didn't do it."

Now he understands. His face changes, pales a few shades. He takes a deep breath and holds out his hand. His fingers caress my cheek.

"Swear to me you _did not_ do it!" I'm almost begging.

"I didn't," he whispers very quietly.

And I collapse on his chest and weep. I'm choking on tears. It's close to the effect of the Cruciatus curse. It's tearing my heart apart. Tom's hand brushes through my hair. He whispers something in Parseltongue. All my tears spent, I can only breathe in and out convulsively.

What was that black out? What did I do? Why can't I remember anything?

"It's not your fault," Voldemort says. "And she knows it, wherever she is. She has been gone since that curse hit her. Let her go."

Hours fly by. I bury my hand in Sally's fluffy fur and stroke him absent-mindedly. He yelps cheerfully.

"Nichols once asked me why I didn't kill you," I say to Voldemort. He gives me a curious gaze.

"And why is that?"

"You created me. The way I am. The moment you gave me this," I gesture at my scar. "I thought if I did something counter to what the Prophecy had said, I would change my fate. That I'd get to choose. Was I wrong?"

"We are what we are," he replies thoughtfully.

* * *

Quite soon everything is back to normal. I had a little break in my studies (Nichols was so kind to give it to me, and even then he had to go through Kingsley to deliver me the message. What is he, scared of me?). But now I'm back in the Department, preparing for another period of horrible exams. Days turn into weeks, weeks become months. Summer has come and showered the city in gold.

I had no more black outs. The night Neville and I set out to search for the final Horcrux has been erased from my memory. What I remember is hardly important; what is important, I can no longer remember.

One day, out dining with Ron and Neville at a small café in Hogsmeade, I happen to meet an old… acquaintance of mine, so to speak.

We laugh at someone's joke over the faintly glowing butterbeer. Neville tosses an entire handful of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans in the air and tries to catch them with his mouth. It looks simply hilarious.

"Honestly, Neville, get a girlfriend," I sigh, rubbing my weary eyes.

"I have a girlfriend!" he pouts.

"Harry probably means a _live_ girl, not another flesh-eating geranium from your flower-bed!" Ron squeaks through bursts of laughter.

"That's cheap," Neville states coldly. "And for the record, I have a _real_ girlfriend."

"And when do we get to meet her?"

They're still discussing this subject when I'm off to the lavatory. On my way back I bump into a waitress. She drops the tray, and we begin to apologize at the same time. We draw our wands to mend the shattered teapot and look at each other.

"Oh… Hello, Harry."

"Hi… Cho," I murmur.

She still looks dazzling though I don't idolize her anymore. Her raven hair is neatly combed and collected into a loose bun. Her eyes acquire a charming gleam as she regards me standing with my wand over the ceramic shards, staring down at them in strained silence.

"I heard about… what'd happened," Cho says uneasily. "I'm so sorry. If you ever need to talk or something…"

"Sure," I interrupt hastily. It feels too awkward. "Thanks."

We grow quiet once again, trying to avoid looking at each other. I'd really like to leave but I can't.

"So how have you been?" Cho smiles. "Heard you're doing well in the Department of Law Enforcement."

"Nah, I'm just a trainee. Worse than N.E.W.T. year at school. And you… Do you work here?"

Moron! Of course she _works_ here! I'm getting absolutely terrified of the situation.

"It's a temporary job." Cho tugs at her lilac uniform skirt. "While I'm learning advanced magic."

"And Quidditch? Don't you play anymore?"

Cho shrugs. "I quit. Spine trauma."

I spot my friends by the door and apologize to Cho, promising to finish our conversation some other time.

"I never stopped thinking about you, Harry," she says quietly as I walk away. She probably thinks I don't hear it. I really wish I didn't.

* * *

We're on a pier, and I'm staring into the endless blue of the sky. Far, far away it blends into the greenish sea – the line of the horizon is blurred, and you can't tell exactly where the sea ends and the sky begins.

"She likes you," Voldemort remarks. "That girl in the coffee-shop."

"Long story. You don't really want to know."

His eyes become serpent-like slits for a moment. I blink; they're instantly back to normal. "I already know."

I put Cho out of my mind for a while. She's another page in that finished book. Why the hell do I feel so bad right now?

Voldemort gets up and holds out his hand, and he leads me away to the park. It's very quiet. The world is only inhabited if he wants company, but he rarely needs it. And now the world is very still around us. The waves of the ocean splashing against the pier, the setting sun, Sally's cheerful yelping in the distance.

"What's the weather like outside?" Tom asks. He looks away when I raise my head; he probably thinks it gives him an aura of vulnerability or something.

"Pretty good. It rains sometimes but not too frequently."

"I like rain."

"I don't. I get sick every time I get wet," I reply in a dull voice. "Probably something wrong with my immune system. Wizards aren't supposed to become ill as often as Muggles do, right?"

He nods. His lips twitch upward as if he's trying to hold back a smile. I don't understand what that's supposed to mean, but I let it go because he suddenly states playfully:

"I like the taste of rain on someone's skin. What do you think?"

I shrug impassively. He's obviously not satisfied with the answer. "But there must be something you do like!" Oh, I don't like that mischievous gleam in his eyes.

I lie back, my hands at the back of my head, and look up at the sky. Twilight envelops the dream world in soft, sheer haze. Tom's lips curve in a sly grin.

"I know! How about strawberry jam?"

"Strawberry's fine," I mumble.

He produces a jar of dark-red jam and a spoon. It's only now that I have a vague realization something's going to go wrong.

Tom scoops up a spoonful of jam and licks the spoon deliciously. I bite my lip with a small, shy smile. The second spoonful aviates in my direction. My mouth is full of the thick, sweet substance, and before I swallow it, Voldemort covers my lips with his.

He breaks the kiss off and smiles lazily. He opens my shirt and guides another portion of jam towards me. The spoon lists, shakes, and the jam drops on my stomach. I gasp sharply. It's viscous and cool.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Tom drawls in a voice that makes me regret letting him have it his way. "I'll clean it up."

He licks the jam away, his tongue lapping at my skin in soft strokes. He smears the jam over my skin. Unable to breathe, I watch the pale-red film disappear. I run my fingers through his hair, making him look up and draw closer to me. I can taste myself through the strawberry drops on his lips.

I'm on the verge of pleasure and shock – it has become my usual condition when I'm with him. I can't stop asking myself the same question: What the fuck am I doing!?

I'm exhausted, covered in sweat and jam, and I lie panting in the soft grass. How come it's _always_ outdoors? I wonder if Voldemort even has a house. He's always outside no matter what the weather is like.

"I smell like a cake now," I mutter sleepily. "Thanks a lot."

Voldemort chuckles. He trails a line of kisses along my back; his tongue dances over my skin, and he lifts his hand to stroke my hair. It's funny that I should feel so warm and safe in the arms of my greatest enemy. My thoughts slow down. Where were we? Ah yes, it's odd that he makes me feel…

* * *

Voldemort shifted in bed and blinked to adjust to the new reality. Merlin, this was getting easier and easier. And all the more amusing.

He put the glasses on and greeted Potter's pale mirror image with a charming smile. "Thank you ever so much, Harry. This won't take long, I promise."


	8. Beyond A Visible Sign Of Awakening

**Title**: "Spiritus Mundi"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-war, Harry is 19

**Summary**: Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + Voldemort is close to achieving his goal. And I give you some fluff at the end. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling. The chapter title comes from the song 'Sleeping Beauty' by _A Perfect Circle_.

**Special thanks**: to Mizstorge for beta-reading.

**A/N**: Thank you so much for your reviews! hugs This is coming to an end, sadly.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

_**Beyond A Visible Sign Of Awakening**_

Voldemort pulled the boy's sluggish body out of the bed (how could someone so lazy and unkempt have defeated _him_?). This time it required no shock to take control. Voldemort smiled contentedly. He had much more time now, the whole night ahead of him.

He found an open packet of juice in the fridge. The liquid felt odd, familiar to his mouth, yet slightly different. The organism welcomed it with doubt; perhaps because it was Potter's favourite, not his.

The Dark Lord had more time to feel things now: the soft cotton of the shirt he'd put on, the rough fabric of his jeans, Potter's messy hair beneath his fingers. Reality. Voldemort's stomach clenched. Perfection. Since he had been brutally ripped out of this pathetic little world, it had become pure perfection that he desperately wanted to own.

The doorbell rang. Voldemort knitted his eyebrows. What the hell; did the boy expect guests? After midnight?

He almost swallowed a smile when he saw that black-haired girl standing on the doorstep. She was, to say the least, relentless.

"Hey, I'm sorry if it's a bad time," she said, flushing. "I needed to talk to you so much."

"It's all right," said Voldemort, letting her through. "But I was kind of leaving…"

"I won't take long! All this time, I couldn't stop thinking about you… I know what you probably think. But I need to know… if there's still a chance for us."

Voldemort stared at her blankly (fortunately, it seemed to be Potter's natural expression when it came to girls). She was rather pretty with her huge watery eyes and sad, hopeful smile.

"Cho, I…" he said quietly, his mouth very dry. "I don't know what–."

The girl drew forward and kissed him deeply, wrapping her arms around him. For a moment he felt the youth's body react to her minty breath, and the fruit sweetness of her lip-gloss, and the feeling of her body pressed to his.

He pulled away and mumbled, armed with Potter's embarrassment and awkwardness: "I really need to go. We'll talk about it later, okay?"

Cho's face became crimson. He took her by the hand and forced a weak smile. "I'm just very busy right now."

As soon as she was gone, Voldemort Apparated to the neighbourhood of Hogwarts and strode calmly towards the gate. He tore a huge white blossom from the tree and breathed in its scent, enjoying the mix of flower incense and thunderstorm in the air. The mighty towers of Hogwarts dominated the skyline. Voldemort wondered if there was any sensible reason behind his sentimental attachment to this ancient castle. Not really; it was just a pile of rocks. But a familiar pile of rocks. There had never been a graduate of Hogwarts who would have hated this school.

"I should say I'm surprised to see you here, Harry," McGonagall said, eyeing him suspiciously. "Especially at this time of night. But it is not within my right to deny you anything. Professor Dumbledore is much better if that's who you want to talk to."

"Thank you very much," Voldemort said. "I was going to request your permission to visit the dungeons, Professor."

Minerva's face twitched slightly. She opened her mouth, then closed it, trying to maintain control; with a quick flourish of her wand she summoned a key and sent it flitting towards Voldemort.

"We haven't found a replacement yet, you know," she whispered in a strained voice. Voldemort nodded gravely. "F-for Severus… Looks like the DADA position _is_ cursed."

"Maybe you should have given it to Voldemort," said Harry Potter with a strange gleam in his eyes. Minerva pursed her lips.

"Don't be silly! Now do whatever you need to do in the dungeons and leave, Mr Potter. You ought to be in bed."

'She still thinks he's her student,' Voldemort smiled, making his way down into Snape's former office. 'Typical Minnie.'

The office was in perfect order as kept by its owner, albeit every object was covered in a thick layer of dust indicating that it had been empty for all these years. It's funny that in the end Slughorn chose to move out. Voldemort trailed his fingers over the shelf, and they came away stained with greyish substance. He wiped them with his sleeve briskly.

It didn't take long to find the hiding place where Snape kept illegal potions. The Order failed to locate it when they searched the office. Voldemort raked the vials out carefully and counted them. Five, precisely. Five long-lost recipes of Slytherin required for the ritual of Revival and Transference.

"I knew I could trust you, Severus," Voldemort murmured and thought irritably: 'Damn it! It's time to get rid of this annoying habit of talking to myself. Unless I want to turn into Potter completely!'

---------------------------

Voldemort entered the studio with a mixed feeling of wariness and curiosity. It was a reckless act, but he couldn't resist seeing his old Transfiguration teacher again. He couldn't resist taunting the portrait of a dead wizard with his cold, mocking look upon Harry Potter's innocent face. Would Dumbledore see through the mask? Would he recognize him? To miss the opportunity meant to be tormented by it forever.

"Ah, Harry," the portrait drawled in a weak but cheerful voice. There still were scorch-marks visible upon the canvas. The frame was splintered in places. "I'm so sorry to have frightened you, my boy. Professor McGonagall tells me you've been doing quite well with your studies…"

"I'm glad to see you're better, Professor," said Voldemort evenly.

"Ah, well, Minerva's prone to exaggerating things sometimes. There has never been anything serious. One of our Defense Against The Dark Arts trainees accidentally spilt a potion on me."

The old man smiled carelessly and surveyed the visitor over his half-moon spectacles. What he saw was a youth shifting his feet by the door, looking at him with concern and relief in his eyes.

"How is your work with Lord Voldemort going?" asked Dumbledore.

"Progressing." An uncomfortable silence. The youth braced himself and said: "I'd better come to visit you at a more appropriate time. Have a good night, sir."

He walked to the door, and behind him the old man chuckled into his beard: "Good night, Tom."

Voldemort halted and looked back with a smug grin on his face. "When did you know?"

"I've always known. I wanted to see if you really thought me to be so foolish to continue this act."

Voldemort sneered. "I was having fun."

"What do you want this time, Tom?"

"Is that it? Not going to try and stop me? Not going to call out to Harry, begging him to wake up?" Voldemort shook his head in mocking disbelief. "I must admit I'm disappointed. You ask me what I want. What everyone else wants: _life_. I could take this body, you know."

He raised Potter's hand, moved his fingers, trailed them over the youth's cheek, his lips and his chin. His smile widened.

"I could take over right _now_, so that your precious little hero who's sleeping peacefully in his London apartment would never wake up. Nothing can stop me. I just don't want to live the rest of my life as the acclaimed Hero of the Wizarding World."

"Have you come here to boast, Tom?" Dumbledore asked calmly. "You have always been far too arrogant."

Harry Potter's form leaned against the wall with an effortless grace that Harry Potter never possessed. Voldemort didn't want to destroy the portrait. Dumbledore had said it himself, hadn't he? 'There are worse things than death.' In the end, everyone gets what they believe in. The wand appeared in the youth's hand. He raised it and chanted the spell, enjoying the helpless look in the old man's eyes.

"You can't stop me, Dumbledore. Right now I'm going to walk out of the School and head to my old orphanage. And no one will pay attention because to them I will be Harry Potter. And you will not be able to tell anyone about this encounter. By the time they cancel the spell, I'll be already gone. Good-bye, my dear Professor."

He walked out of the office without further delay. The School was quiet.

He Disapparated and entered the abandoned building of the orphanage where he planned to perform the ritual. His old room was still empty except for a rusty iron bedstead with a broken leg. Voldemort lifted a floorboard in the corner of the room and opened a small hiding place underneath it. He put the vials in it next to the dirty bundle and moved the floorboard back in its place.

'_Tom Riddle! You will pay attention in my class!' his old teacher's voice rumbled vividly in his ears._

_There he was again, back in his classroom, wearing his threadbare grey uniform. Numbers and fractions writhed across the surface of the blackboard. It rained outside. It seemed that it had always been raining._

'_Riddle! Do I not make myself clear enough?' Mr Parker loomed over him. Tom's face hardened. 'How many times have I warned you about daydreaming in my class?'_

'_I… I wasn't daydreaming, sir,' Tom stuttered. An iron ruler came down on his fingers. The boy bit his lip to hold back a whimper._

'_You are a vain, disrespectful child, Riddle,' said Mr Parker through gritted teeth. 'I shall beat this out of you.'_

_In his room Tom gave vent to tears. He cried so hard he could barely breathe past__ the__ sobs. His fingers still hurt, the knuckles dark with bruises._

Voldemort shook off the memory. Children are weak, and they have every right for it. He wondered briefly what could have happened to Mr Parker. How did he die? Perhaps he had been murdered by some desperate student…

For a moment his hand hurt as if being struck by a ruler again. He rubbed his fingers unconsciously and said: "Everything is going as planned. I'm almost done. Soon we can complete the ritual."

He heard someone move behind him, closer and closer, and he found himself staring at the young, handsome face of Tom Riddle. The last piece of a puzzle.

"I'm not quite sure it's what I want," Tom said gravely.

Voldemort touched his cheek affectionately. "I know. But it's what _I_ want."

* * *

I dream again.

_I ran through the battlefield, a single thought pulsing in my mind: I have to find him. As soon as possible. I have to get it over with._

_I wasn't sure how it happened that I found myself staring into the face of my greatest enemy, not Voldemort, but someone I'd come to hate even more. I directed my wand at him. He was sprawled on the ground behind a crumbled wall, not hurt visibly but seemingly paralyzed._

_His lips twitched upward in a hideous smile as his impenetrable black eyes met mine._

"_Brave move, Mr Potter. You wouldn't stand a chance against me if I was up on my feet. Come on, kill me, if that's what you want so badly!"_

_Vast cold emptiness opened up within me. "I don't want to kill you," I said contemptuously. "I want you to suffer."_

_Snape smiled widely, daring me to act. I uttered as clearly as I could, '_Crucio_!' and watched his body jerk in agony. Weak and wounded, he couldn't defy the influence of the curse. He writhed on the ground, biting his lip till the blood welled up._

"_If you want the pain to stop," I said, "you'll have to beg me."_

_He laughed breathlessly. "I shall… never b-beg you for anything!"_

_I shot another curse at him. This time he screamed. His voice broke; he wheezed and panted, and I heard him swearing through gritted teeth. I brought my face closer to his; I could see every bead of sweat that covered his forehead._

"_Is that all you… c-can manage?" Snape sighed._

"_How did it feel to kill the man who trusted you? He gave you another life after the First war, and that's how you paid him for it!"_

"_You know n-nothing!"_

"_Then _tell_ me!"_

_He closed his eyes. For a moment I was afraid he'd pass out. I held his hand unwittingly, tears streaming down my face. I suddenly felt guilty and very miserable._

"_Took a nasty curse… I was too slow…" Snape muttered. His piercing black eyes opened to scrutinize me. I felt uncomfortable. "I'll die one way or another. So if you want… satisfaction, you'd better kill me now." _

"_Not before you tell me," I whispered mechanically._

"_You're so much like your father… Always… thinking about yourself."_

_That was not true! I knew I acted like a Death Eater torturing the half-dead man, and I was disgusted with myself. I didn't want his forgiveness. I merely wanted him to look at me with different eyes, just this once._

_Oh God, deliver me from this pain. He deserved it!.. _deserveddeserveddeservedit!!!!

"_God, I wish you knew how much I hate you." I could hardly speak past the tears. He could not be saved. I knew it. "Just tell me! Explain it to me while you still have time!"_

_Snape uttered a gurgling sound that was most likely a chuckle. His image was distorted by my tears; I blinked them away and continued to stare at him from behind my cracked lenses._

"_It's between the Head… master and… me…" Snape breathed._

_Something within me crashed. How many people had I killed to get to Voldemort? To satisfy a bloodlust which seemed larger than me…_

I wake up screaming, and panting, and weeping. Panic and hysteria grip me. I curl up in a foetal position, bite the corner of my pillow between my teeth and give vent to my agony. It's too late to go back to Tom now. And he must be tired of me already… I want somebody to hold me.

But I'm alone.

* * *

I go there next night. Tom is half-lying under a tree, his eyes shut. He looks so peaceful. I know better than to trust his deceptive appearance, but right now I want peace, I want serenity… I want Tom.

I kneel beside him and nip playfully at his neck. His eyelids flutter, and a small smile emerges on his lips.

"Aren't you tired of sleeping yet?" I tease.

"Rebuilding this place is tiresome."

I mount him and unbutton his shirt. His smile grows wider. He must be wondering… It's the first time I initiate it. He usually has to persuade me.

He squirms with pleasure as I cover his chest in open-mouthed kisses. I unzip his trousers and stroke him underneath the fabric. I slide down and take him into my mouth; he pushes his knee up and presses it into my groin. I rub myself to hardness against it.

Merlin, I want him. I fucking _want_ him. I wanted him before, of course, but never this much.

And when it's over I kiss him gently on the shoulder. Tom's eyes are closed, his head is turned away from me, but I can still see a small smile that plays on his lips every time I touch him.

"I want you to tell me something," I whisper.

"Hmm?"

I kiss him again and go on, my lips moving against his skin: "I want you to tell me that I mean a lot to you. That I'm special. Not because of this," I point at my scar, "or the Prophecy, or whatever else binds us. I want to be special for who I am."

Tom rolls to his side and gives me an apprehensive look. It looks a little too theatrical. I snigger. He locks his lips with mine and smiles into the kiss.

"You're special."


	9. The Stars' End

**Title**: "Spiritus Mundi"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-war, Harry is 19

**Summary**: Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + Harry is so in love, and that love will destroy him. Voldemort has little time left to live, and Harry finally learns the truth. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling. The passage about "bad and worthless" is a direct quote from Richard Shepard's movie 'Oxygen'. I though it to be very fitting for Harry here.

**Special thanks**: to Mizstorge for beta-reading.

**A/N**: Thank you so much for your reviews! Guys, you're awesome! And thank you to those who added this story to their favourites and alerts lists! Well, we're almost done here, unfortunately. A hug to those who will catch _You Set My Soul Alight_ reference in this chapter. Gives you smth to think about, doesn't it?

* * *

**Chapter 9**

_**The Stars' End**_

My dreams are a bloody fairytale. I'm so full of happiness that it stops me from thinking clearly. It's just me and Tom, and our wonderful journeys, and the most beautiful sunsets I've ever seen, and passionate nights, and the most tender lovemaking. I'm overwhelmed, overjoyed, I'm ready to scream. And in real life I can't stop grinning like a madman. I can't tell anyone about it. I'm dying to share my addiction with them, but I won't allow myself to.

Tom is busy with another painting. He won't show it to me until it's finished. He even disguised it behind an illusion of a blank canvas. I grumble about it and distract him as much as I can. I hug him from the back, babble about something meaningless and stupid… I'm downright crazy!

"I had a weird dream last night," Tom informs me. "I was captured by a bunch of evil faerys and you saved me."

"I saved you, huh?" I tease. "I saved the big bad Dark Lord!"

"Shut up!" Tom manages to squeak past the gasps of laughter.

He pushes me into the tree trunk and silences me with a ravishing kiss. This man can't be Voldemort. I hate Voldemort, I want him to vanish from my life for good, but I never want to lose _this_ person. His hands roam over my body as his hips rub against mine. I never want this to stop. But it does when Voldemort pulls away from me and goes back to his painting. I grunt in frustration.

As the night goes on, I continue to fool about. I ambush Voldemort with a series of random questions just to hear that mesmerizing laughter boil in his throat again.

"Let me see… Favourite colour?"

"Black."

I knit my eyebrows. "Oh come on!.."

"Okay, okay! Midnight blue. And green." He looks at me attentively, straight into my eyes, and repeats in his most seductive voice: "Green."

I probably blush because he snickers. I make a face and fire the next question: "Favourite food?"

"That's so not fair!" Tom sighs pretentiously. "I haven't tried real food for ages. You'll be surprised: it's bread." I gape at him. Not quite what I've expected. "Simple but delicious."

"Hmm… Favourite place?"

His face darkens, but only for an instant. I'm not quite sure I really saw this subtle change. "Far away from here," he says quietly. "Almost at the stars' end."

It's freedom. He sorely misses it. I'm at a loss; I shouldn't have reminded him. I'm powerless to help him, I won't go against my conscience no matter how much I care for him now.

"Come here," Tom says, having noticed my struggle with confusion. I'm indecisive; he grins at me. "Come, I won't bite. Not now at least. Good, close your eyes."

I close them and feel something cold and wet touch my chest. I shiver. It tickles. Tom whispers something softly. It's a brush, I'm sure of it, and he paints something on me. The sensation is almost arousing.

"Now look."

Something indefinite is painted in red colour on the left side of my chest. I begin to laugh. "Is it a target?"

"No, you silly creature! It's your heart."

Come to think of it, the shape of this red stain does have something in common with a heart. Not those hearts you can see elsewhere on Valentine's Day, but a real human heart with its valves and vessels. Tom brushes his fingers against my chest, smearing the paint. It looks like the heart is bleeding onto his hand.

"I need to go now," I say regretfully.

"Ah, you have a date."

"It's not a date, it's just…"

Tom's eyes glimmer ironically. It's almost as if he knows something that I don't know. But that's impossible, isn't it?

* * *

Some people would indeed regard it as a date. Not in a lifetime. I just need to chill out. And we really need to talk.

So now we (that's Cho and I) are in the sports centre; the blades of our skates cut the ice, drawing curved lines over its shiny surface. Cho laughs. I'm a pretty awkward skater. My experience traces back to a few evenings when the Dursleys were in a good enough mood to take me to a skate-park with Dudley. So I glide along the arena as gracefully as a goose who doesn't understand why his native river is suddenly hard and impenetrable.

Later we sip hot chocolate in a local café and talk about a lot of things: our final years at Hogwarts, our common memories, the future, carefully avoiding the war, and the deaths, and months of recovering. And then she leans into me and kisses me. I don't part my lips, and the kiss is awkward, not really a kiss at all.

I pull away, saying: "I'm sorry, we shouldn't–."

"No, I'm sorry, Harry," Cho says, embarrassed.

God, I hate the silence. Cho looks away, blushing. I cover her hand with mine and say softly:

"This isn't gonna work." She's silent, so I continue: "I wanted to win the TriWizard Cup to impress you, you know. And I wanted to go to the ball with you. And you were my first kiss."

Cho lowers her eyes, smiling. I take a deep breath and say: "But I love someone else."

"I know!" she says with sudden passion. I have to restrain myself not to gape at her. _She does!?_ "But she'd want you to be happy. To move on. I know Cedric wouldn't want me to be lonely."

Oh…

I wet my lips, trying to think up a sensible answer. This is really… embarrassing. But, well, if she thought I meant Ginny, then… okay.

"I understand. But it's… I can't, Cho, not now. Too little time."

I really hate her for being so sweet and compassionate. She likes me, and she's ready to disappear from my life again out of loyalty to my dead girlfriend.

"If only I hadn't spoiled everything!" Cho whispers. "Tell me, would we have still had a chance?"

I squeeze her hand in mine and kiss it tenderly. "No, it's not your fault."

The fault is always mine.

* * *

Discussing Cho with Voldemort is not the best idea, but I need someone to hear me out. He still works on that painting. His face is unreadable when I relate my conversation with Cho. It's even more unreadable when I speak insecurely about Ginny. I make him believe what Cho believes: that I meant Ginny when told her I was in love.

I don't want to talk about Ginny, but I recall her lifeless body in the hospital bed and I can't stop.

"Enough!" Voldemort cuts me off icily. "_You_ are alive. What more do you need?"

I gape at him. I can't comprehend this sudden change. He looks less like Tom Riddle now; the features of his true face shimmer through his mask like expression.

"I'm sick of you always feeling sorry for yourself, Harry!" he goes on mercilessly. "If she survived, what would you do? Marry her? Have a dozen children? _Please_! But she's dead, Harry, dead as dust, and all your pathetic whining can't bring her back!"

"What's happened to you?" I ask, refusing to believe my ears.

"_You_ happened! You come here only when you wish to, be it every night or once a week. You keep asking me stupid questions I have no answers for. And in the morning you go back to _life_ while I'm trapped here. And no!" he throws up his hand, preventing me from speaking. "Do not tell me it is my choice. Between Azkaban and this, what would you choose?"

He looks at me with such disdain that my lips begin to tremble. And for a moment I really believed him. I believed that he'd changed.

"I want life! I want real air, real food, I want my power! I'm the greatest sorcerer in the world!"

"Albus Dumbledore is the greatest sorcerer in the world," I object weakly.

Voldemort laughs unpleasantly. His eyes flash crimson. "_Was_! Your dear Dumbledore has been feeding worms for the past three years! And you, his favourite, his last hope, are no more than Lord Voldemort's fuckboy!"

"Shut up!" I yell, glaring at him with hate. "Shut up!"

"Or _what_!? You'll give my body to the Dementors? Go ahead, Harry! But your courage will falter just like it always does. You're not that cruel." His voice is hoarse, but he continues shouting, throwing his ruthless accusations at me. All I want is to shrink somehow, become invisible. "You know _why_ you didn't kill me, Harry? In spite of what you told me, I know: you didn't do it because you're a coward!"

"I am not a–."

"Oh yes, you are! You're here because you're afraid. You're afraid of the world without me because it's all you know. I came into your life side by side with magic itself. I am magic!"

Once again, the world shifts and blurs around us. It grows dark. We're in a countryside. It seems all too familiar. I've been here before. The stone cottage that rises from the velvet green weed before us was no more than burnt ruins, yet now it's whole. I can hear a woman screaming.

"How dare you!?" I roar as I lunge at him. It looks like a mean jest to me. I attempt to hit him, but he dodges my blows, moving with incredible speed and elegance.

"You made me do it, Harry!" he laughs. "You shouldn't have upset me so!"

I get punched in the face and sink into the grass. He bends over me and taunts me with a shallow kiss. I jerk away and provoke another burst of laughter.

_-It'sss time to choossse which ssside you're on,-_ he hisses maliciously. _–The one that makesss you feel bad and worthless; or the one that makesss you feel ssso bad and worthless that it actually makesss you feel good?-_

His eyes are the darkest shade of blood-red, the deep, beautiful and terrifying colour. I wrap my arms around his neck and make him kneel beside me. I press myself closer to him and claim his lips in a ravishing kiss, pouring my lust and my despair into it. Pure darkness.

He tears away my clothes; I dispose of his. It's rough, and it's insatiable, and it's painful, and I want more of it. I want him to make me forget that I'm such a coward, and a horrible whiner, and the goddamn Chosen One. I scream his name in the end. It's Tom, it always is. No way will he make me scream 'Voldemort'. The name of the one that murdered my family.

"Why can't we be normal?" I ask him later.

His skin smells faintly of honey. That smell has been clinging to me everywhere ever since Ginny passed away. I can't get rid of it.

"We are what we are," he repeats thoughtfully.

"I hope you realize that I'm not gonna break you out of Azkaban. So no 'join the Dark Side' crap, okay?"

Voldemort chuckles and surveys me with a strange glimmer in his eyes.

* * *

Kingsley invited me to see a show of Metamorphmagi at a theatre. I never even suspected such beauty could exist. A whole new universe unfolds like a huge exotic flower before our eyes. They dance to the music of harps and cellos that pours on stage somewhere from above. They change their shapes and colours and sway around each other in liquid and sensual movements.

A mythical creature with blue skin and eight arms reaches out towards our box. I practically jump on my seat. Kingsley grins. It begins to spin, so that all I see is the mixture of blue and gold that shines on its fingers. The music stops and a high, gentle voice rises to the dome-shaped ceiling.

I skew my eyes and spot Nichols in the upper box. He's a bigwig now, sharing the box with heads of departments and the Minister himself. Fortunately, Scrimgeour couldn't make it here tonight.

"He's far from pleased with your work, Harry," Kingsley whispers. "We've come to the conclusion that it is pointless to continue the interrogation."

I frown. I don't like the turn of the conversation. "What exactly do you mean?"

"Voldemort is going to be executed."

"You can't!" I utter in a shrill, high-pitched voice. Kingsley tugs at my sleeve with warning; a few heads have already turned in our direction. He offers them an apologetic smile. "It's just not right," I say. "Give me another… week! One week; I promise I'll make him talk!"

"You already promised. A dozen times. That's not the point, Harry. Try to understand. It's not my idea, not even Stephen's."

I grow cold inside. That's not right, damn it! I silently curse Scrimgeour and all the blasted Wizarding World. He's asleep, he can't be present at his own trial, that's fucking murder! That's not fair. That's atrocious…

"I'm afraid this is getting too personal," Kingsley says. "Do not forget who it is we're talking about."

"I remember! I know better than anyone else does what Voldemort really is. But everyone deserves a second chance, don't you think?"

"I agree. Everyone but him."

I turn away from Kingsley's hard look and let the brilliance of the show consume me. It's drawing to an end. The dancers summon beautiful staffs encased in silver and tap on the floor in unison. Echo thunders beneath the ceiling. The music is reduced to quiet jingling somewhere at the background. Whistling, knocking, clapping grows louder along with monotonous chants of the choir. Suddenly it dies down, and a powerful voice, a union of many voices, utters:

"HAIL TO THE CHOSEN ONE WHO DEFEATED HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED!"

I swallow nervously and lean back. Somebody directs light on our box. Kingsley pushes me forward, making me get up. I bow and wave at everyone, and they cheer as if it were only yesterday that I dragged the bound Dark Lord to Azkaban. I wasn't alone that day, but the truth isn't what they care about. The world wants a hero. Here I am.

* * *

I should probably fill Voldemort in on account of what's awaiting him, but I can't find the strength to discuss it. Besides, he surprises me with another unexpected request.

"Could Sally come and live with you?" he wants to know.

The Newfoundland lies by my feet and stares at me with undisguised curiosity. I pat his large head and ask: "Why? What's wrong? Are you tired of him?"

"No, not at all. It's just that he's a real dog and he needs real air, real food and other real dogs to play with. I can see that he's a little tried by these surroundings. And he likes you."

Sally yelps as if in confirmation of this statement. I can't hold back a smile.

"Sure, I'll take him. He'll come to visit, but not often. It's pretty hard to make him lie still while I chant the spell."

Tom laughs. I look at him studiously. Is it possible that he suspects something?

* * *

I dream again. In dreams I hear her call my name. I reach out for her, and I see…

I see…

I finally see the truth.

I wake up screaming,

"LIAR!"


	10. Professional Liar

**Title**: "Spiritus Mundi"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-war, Harry is 19

**Summary**: Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + Everything falls apart. The truth is revealed; and love dies. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling.

**Special Thanks**: to Mizstorge for beta-reading.

**A/N**: Well, guys, one more chapter, and we're done with this. Thank you for your brilliant reviews and adds!

* * *

**Chapter 10**

_**Professional Liar**_

The dream reveals the truth. The very truth I wish I never knew.

_The hospital ward was deserted and quiet at that time of night. The Dark Lord slipped past the night nurse and entered the room where the girl was lying in a coma. The even rise and fall of her chest indicated she was alive. But only just. Voldemort let the Cloak fall to his feet and stepped forth._

_"My little princess," he whispered almost affectionately, stroking the girl's ginger hair. No reaction. "You've served your purpose. I don't need you anymore. I am truly sorry to part this way." He touched her forehead with his lips; they parted in a lazy smile, savouring the feel of her warm skin. "I shall miss you."_

_He seemed to recall whose body it was that was kissing her and speaking to her. He smiled once again and corrected himself: "_We_ shall miss you."_

* * *

I rush to the field where I find him sitting amidst the high grass. My voice fails me; I clench and unclench my fists neurotically, striving to focus. My anger splashes all around me like a vast ocean. 

"You… liar… You killed her! You made _me_ kill her!" I swallow the tears, gasping for air. I can't stop shaking. "You _killed_ her!"

"It was a necessity," Voldemort says evenly. The bastard doesn't even deny anything!

I kneel beside him, place my hand on his shoulder and compress it forcefully. "You're going to pay for it."

Tom presses his lips to mine, and against my better judgment I don't resist. "She was ready to go. I saved her. I saved you both."

I pull away and draw my wand. His eyes widen, but only for a moment. Soon he's back in his usual playful mode. He attempts to kiss me again, and I punch him in the face, over and over again, sobbing uncontrollably, until blood wells up on his perfect features. He catches my wrist and throws me off, his face a mask of pure contempt.

"Yes, I killed your little bitch!" he spits maliciously. "And I was happy to do it! She was holding you back. I told you how tired I was of your constant whining!"

I give him a cold look. I cannot endure this anymore. Everything that's going on between us… He is a murderer, a liar, he is _Voldemort_. And I was supposed to get rid of him. I brought this on myself.

"The hell I'll wait for that bloody execution," I say, forgetting he's not aware of it yet. Or maybe he is… How the hell am I supposed to know!? "I'm going to kill you now." The wand finds its target, and just when my lips move to utter 'Avada Kedavra', he laughs at me:

"Oh no, you don't."

He throws his hands forward, and I'm spinning, sinking, flying and being ripped into the tiniest shreds before I come to my senses in my own bed. I gasp and take a shallow breath to steady my nerves. I swear, clutch my wand tighter and attempt to get back.

But I can't.

The devil has blocked me.

"No!" I scream. "No!!! You can't do this! You killed her, you murderous bastard! I'll have your life for it! I'll get you – one way or another, Tom, I'll get you!"

Sally, disturbed by my bout of hysterics, starts to bark. He's probably going to wake up the neighbours, and they will probably have the right to call the police. But to be honest, I couldn't care less.

I try to get through to him again and again, but every time some kind of barrier stops me. Finally, I relent. He won't let me get in again. He knows only too well what I want.

* * *

I raise my hands and survey them attentively. With these hands I have ruined my life. 

Two days. I couldn't sleep for two days.

The day fades, and when I can't enter the dream world, I go back to the nightclub. I dive into the neon heat of the dance floor, that feverish darkness strewn with pencils of blinding light. Coloured lenses pour red, green, blue rays down on the moving, breathing mass of dancing people. I like moving to the unifying rhythm of music as a single component of that huge organism.

I spot a girl by the bar stool. Just what the doctor ordered! She catches me staring and smiles.

"How about a dance?" I suggest.

"Sure, my favourite song."

She clings to me, and the faint aroma of tobacco and perfume that comes from her clothes excites me. I don't want to be good, I don't want to be perfect, I don't want to be everybody's last hope. I don't want to be Voldemort's fuckboy.

I stare in her brown eyes, hypnotized, and close my lips over hers. Her silken red hair sweeps over my shoulder.

She winds up at my place, her clothes scattered about my bedroom. I plant soft kisses upon her pointed shoulder sprinkled with freckles. She flicks her tongue over my scar and laughs.

"Where's that from?"

I trail a path of kisses down to her breasts and whisper: "A gift from a well-wisher."

In the middle of the night a horribly loud banging snaps me out of my dreamless sleep. Staggering, not sober enough yet, I walk to the door. Hermione storms in, and I'm promptly taken aback by her abrupt inquiry: "Where have you been!? Do you realize how worried we were? We haven't heard from you for three days! For Merlin's sake, Harry! What is the matter with you?"

Tongue-tied, I try to think up a suitable answer. Hermione wrinkles her nose and eyes me reproachfully. "Have you been drinking!?"

"Ah, well… a little…"

To my terror, my one-night-stand emerges from the bedroom, smiling graciously. Her dishevelled hair ripples down her back in ginger cascade.

"Oh, hi!" she beams at Hermione. I feel so ashamed I want to fall through the floor.

"Who's this?" Hermione inquires icily.

"Err… my friend Hermione," I gesture at the new Mrs Weasley, straining my memory in the meantime. I'm so screwed! "And this… this is…"

"I'm Bianca," the girl smiles. Hermione's lips twitch faintly. The redheaded whirlwind spins around to face me and rises on her tiptoes to capture my lips in a teasing kiss. "Call me."

When the door shuts behind her, Hermione glares at me disapprovingly. I'm so drunk I can barely stand straight.

"Harry, do you think we can't see what's going on?" Ah, that annoying habit of newlyweds to say 'we' instead of 'I'. "She's the exact copy of Ginny! You're trying to replace her, but–."

"Of course, Hermione, you should know all about it. Honestly, you know so much about me that sometimes I wonder if by chance I have split personalities. It seems that you're more comfortable in my skin than I am."

She flushes indignantly, but it's too late for me to stop now. I'm high, I can't think clearly, I'm furious and I snap at my best friend: "Why don't you all sod off and let me live, for fuck's sake! Believe me, some people actually have sex _before_ their wedding night!"

This must have stung her stern, hypocritical self. She takes a step back and looks at me with her beautiful angry eyes. I want to feel ashamed to justify her anger, but I don't.

"What did you come for?" I ask wearily.

Her voice sounds weak, almost exhausted when she draws out: "There's a National Quidditch Cup in Bulgaria next month. Viktor sent me invitation. I thought you'd want to come."

She throws the card on the table and walks out rapidly. I lower myself to the couch, exhaling slowly. I've destroyed everything. _Everything_.

* * *

The next day I get an owl from Malfoy. He wants to meet me. I can't express how happy I am. I just need to hang out with someone. I don't feel like apologizing to Hermione (at least, now), which means Ron will probably take her side. My personal guardian herbologist is busy at some conference. Who else? I don't have anyone else, dammit! 

We take a walk and dine at a small street café. My choice, of course. Draco's face is an impenetrable mask, but the aura of squeamishness around him is almost tangible. Another source of amusement for me. What did I tell you about payback?

The probationary period is over; Malfoy is free. I know he's called me here to tell me he's leaving, and it saddens me. Believe it or not, but knowing he was out there really helped me.

"So where are you going?" I ask, sipping iced tea.

"I'm not sure yet. Around the world. It's big enough, after all."

"I wish I could join you… And who's watching over the house?"

"Ah, I sold it."

Tea splatters over my chin. I goggle my eyes at him and force a weak laugh. "You what? Who'd buy it?"

"Some distant cousin from Prague," Malfoy shrugs. He's visibly unaffected, but I can guess what turmoil simmers beneath his impassive façade. "He's pureblood, I checked his background."

So typically Malfoy! I nod in agreement.

"What about your relatives?"

"Wailing in horror," he grins. "Going crazy in their frames. I had no choice. I needed money, and Malfoy Manor was all I had."

He wouldn't let me embrace him, so I don't even try. He walks out of my life wordlessly; I let him go with a mixed feeling of sorrow and relief. He'll be away and he won't remind me of my past. Another page in that infamous book. Though I do believe he will come back if I call him.

I'm just glad he lives.

* * *

I'm tired and lost and I don't know what to do. Why does it have to be hard with him? I almost beg him to let me in. It's only natural that he doesn't respond: I'll try to kill him again, and he's well aware of that. 

Something forces me to go back to his old orphanage. This place was never his home. I doubt he'd ever had a better home than Hogwarts (not unlike myself), but I can still feel his presence in the old abandoned building. I've been here only twice: in the Pensieve when Dumbledore showed me his first meeting with Tom and for real, when I'd been looking for the Horcruxes. But everything here is familiar, a little too familiar.

"If you hear me," I whisper vehemently, "know this: you had me. You know you did! I was all yours. You fucking blew it, Tom! I wish you'd just die and leave me alone. I was yours, Tom!" Tears stream down my cheeks. How could I sink so low? "I was all yours!"

I fall on my knees and lean heavily against an old iron bedstead. My hand touches something rough on the floor. I hold it up to my eyes – it's a shred of fabric. I've seen it before. It's familiar to me, the texture, the smell… I remember how I'd unwrapped it, extracted a small vial, poured sparkling silvery substance into a cauldron.

Unicorn blood… Its long-forgotten taste is now fresh on my lips.

I drop the cloth and look around. What is happening to me? Are those _his_ feelings, _his_ memories? Is _he_ still there, inside my mind?

I did… I made a potion… I broke the cauldron… I splashed it on the floor… I fought the Phantom Guard and set the shack on fire… I killed Ginny…

No, wait… I don't understand anything!

I see things. I see them pass before me, someone else's memories. The potion on the floor – why is it on the floor? I see someone step inside the circle (yes, yes, there's a circle drawn in charcoal over the floorboards, and the potion slowly fills it). The potion washes over his shoes. It's me. No, it's not me. It's _him_. And he looks like the one from the diary.

What if he's still here?

"I killed you," I say. "I killed you, I watched you die."

Silence. There's nothing more terrifying than the complete and utter stillness that reigns within the orphanage now.

I barely remember how I get home. I fall on the bed but I get no rest. An owl hoots, Sally begins to bark, Hedwig joins the choir. I whimper and go to collect the letter. It's an urgent note from Kingsley. He wants to me come to the office immediately.

What the hell did I do to deserve being Harry Potter?

* * *

I sit at the table in Kingsley's office, my fingers tapping nervously on the surface of the table. I barely refrain from bouncing up and pacing across the room. Why does he want to see me? What's happened? What's the rush? Why do I get the feeling something's awfully wrong? 

They're hiding something important.

Five days since I last talked to _him_. Longer than eternity. I could avoid him for a week and be none the worse for it. But that was my choice. He's shut me out, I can't get into his mind no matter how hard I try. And it's driving me insane.

Kingsley comes in, takes a seat opposite me and looks at me seriously. I shift underneath his gaze.

"Harry," he informs me. "Lord Voldemort's dead."


	11. Total Eclipse Of The Heart

**Title**: "Spiritus Mundi"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-war, Harry is 19

**Summary**: Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + _"There isn't a second in my life when I'm not thinking about Voldemort. He's constantly with me. Maybe we could visit all those places for real…"_ Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling. The name for the chapter comes from Bonnie Tyler's song 'Total Eclipse of the Heart'.

**Special Thanks**: to Mizstorge for beta-reading.

**A/N**: Guys! We've come to an end! Thank you to all my readers and reviewers! You have no idea how much your reviews mean to me. The final book of HP series will be released soon. I hope it doesn't disappoint us all. Personally I'd love it if it was anything like SM, but… well, a girl can dream, right? ;))

* * *

**Epilogue**

_**Total Eclipse of the Heart**_

I blink my eyes.

"In his sleep," Kingsley elaborates. "He never regained consciousness."

I blink again. This supposed too-good-to-be-true news doesn't affect me – and that bothers me. I'm supposed to feel something, anything, aren't I?

"Are you–?" I begin, and my voice fails me. I clear my throat and try again: "Are you sure? That he _is_ dead, I mean?"

"Positive. He was found in his cell in Azkaban. The Healers examined him; I can assure you, Harry he is–."

Oh.

I nod faintly, start to my feet and leave the building as soon as I can. Soft wind is blowing in my face. It sobers me a little. Very slowly I begin to understand. It has been a worked-out plan all along, a master plan! It flares before me like a huge diamond, and I can see all the edges of it very clearly.

He falls asleep – not only to escape the dreadful reality of Azkaban but to gain more time, to get me. He knows that of all people _I_ will be assigned to interrogate him. I remember my first meeting with my superiors. Kingsley's voice somewhere in the background: "Harry Potter, meet Stephen Nichols. He's on Lord Voldemort's case."

I forget everything, staring into the man's icy eyes. He is all business. The way he looks at me reminds me of Snape. And I don't want to be reminded of Snape.

"We've been trying to wake him up for six months," Nichols informs very matter-of-factly. "We've tried everything, including very advanced and dangerous magic. So far to no avail. But in the meantime we've come up with a curious project. Our tests indicate that You-Know-Who's brain functions very actively, as if he's wide awake. That can only mean that he has found a way to expend his energy. We suspect he has constructed a special dream world. He can't escape, it's as much a cage as his cell in prison. We worked out a spell to enter his dreams. All we need is a volunteer. Shacklebolt recommends you."

And so I'm in. Voldemort doesn't answer my questions, but slowly his attitude changes from grudging to friendly – taking time again. He distracts me, weakens my concentration. All his remarks about Ginny and the nightclub girls hit me right in the heart.

Seduction comes next. His little game begins; here I am, caught in the net. I try to break loose, but it's impossible. We're dealing with a professional here.

_Honey…_ _yard of stone… a tree_… The story with the Horcrux and my latest visions is unclear. Was there a Horcrux at all? Or was it false alarm?

No-no-no, it's just another piece of the puzzle. I'll make it fit.

Then there comes possession. My blackouts. He takes me over, and I can't read his mind like he reads mine. I don't know what he's been doing in my body. And I don't want to know. He knows me, he understands me, he uses me. I want to give up control, I want to be led, and he knows – fuck him! – he knows how bad I want it.

"_Which side are you on?"_ he asked me. _"The one that makes you feel bad and worthless…"_

He killed Ginny. Why did he have to do it? She was no threat to him.

"_Or the one that makes you feel so bad and worthless…"_

Unless…

"…_that it actually makes you feel good?"_

I freeze in the middle of the square. A spotted butterfly flies by. It makes a circle and returns to me, and then another one joins it, a frail yellow one with a pair of red dots on its lemon wings.

He brought me to the shack because he needed a stressful situation to initiate the first black-out. He had something stored in that building. The vial with unicorn blood. He took it, banished the witch and hid it in the orphanage. And then another black-out. He needed a body to perform the ritual.

The vial wasn't a Horcrux.

Ginny was.

* * *

Life is back to normal. It's the end of summer. The grass is a few shades dimmer, the flowers are a bit darker and weaker, and the air already smells of autumn.

There isn't a second in my life when I'm not thinking about Voldemort. He's constantly with me. Maybe we could visit all those places for real: Indonesia, Kazakhstan, America…

One of his reprimands to me suddenly makes sense: "You are alive. What more do you need?"

There comes a day when I take a walk through the city and come back to that square again. And I see butterflies. I frown. Hardly the season for them now. I stare at the mesmerizing swarm and I feel someone's lips at the back of my head, and a voice behind me utters quietly:

"Don't turn around."

He covers my neck in gentle kisses, sucks at my earlobe playfully. Why the hell did he come back!? I didn't tell anyone that in my opinion Voldemort was still alive.

Is it revenge? Or is it?..

"Tom," I smile. "You just had to do it, didn't you?"

_**The End**_


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